Shackles
by C.Dill
Summary: I always wondered what happened to Dean in New Orleans right before he went to go fetch Sam at Stanford. Warning: This does contain a female character of my own creation. I like to think that she is an interesting companion for Dean. Oh, and there are zombies. Please feel free to read and comment.
1. Shackles Part One

Shackles: Part One

New Orleans, 2005

The air hung like a thick curtain; it coated his throat and clogged his airway. He constricted his vocal chords in a vain attempt to clear the honey deep humidity of the South from his throat and hoped that the simple, innocuous sound would somehow relieve the intense quiet of the nearly abandoned street. When he had hopped in the Impala and headed down to the Big Easy he had thought he was in for the time of his life: topless women, Voodoo Queens, and beignets as far as his eyes could see. Instead, he was standing in puddle that he was almost sure was urine while being eyed by a suspicious wino with blood shot eyes and a mouth that moved in the silent gesture of words.

No sound ever emerged from the cavernous black hole. Instead, the poor bastard leaned against the faded brick corner of one of the many "adult bookstores" that littered the streets. His eyes darted from side to side as if he were forever looking to escape his surroundings. His clothes were tattered and stained with an amalgam of fluids. Dean wasn't sure if the fluids were emanating from the drool coming from the man's mouth or if he had picked the stains up via mishaps and adventures that only he knew. Each tear in the fabric revealed his ashy chocolate colored skin. It took little effort for the building to hold the man's malnourished frame while he sipped generously from the fifth of bourbon that some wasteful soul had haphazardly throne in a nearby trash can half an hour earlier.

He had spent the last few minutes staring at the wino. Watching as he sipped from the bottle and sang his silent solo. The man was strange, there was no doubt about that, but wasn't the very essence of his existence, his family's existence, to spot the strange and learn how to destroy or coexist with it?

The man had made no move to harm him but that didn't mean that he was about to put his guard down. Hell no, he kept one eye on the shadows and the other on the putrid fellow with a gaping mouth and searching eyes. While he did not begrudge the man's existence, he did bemoan the fact that he was standing in the street waiting for some nameless vigilante to tell him her sob story.

He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be by his father's side. That was his duty. That was his right. He was supposed to be riding down the highway with the windows rolled down and the radio blaring. Just the image of his car fading into the void of an endless blacktop as it ate up miles between where he was going and where he had been made him smile. From the moment his father had placed him and his younger brother Sam in the backseat and told them that they were going to chase, hunt, and fight monsters, Dean Winchester had loved the road and all of its mysteries. As long as he was driving, he wasn't forced to think about all of the things he was missing: a mother, a father who cared instead of scolded, and a brother who would pick up the phone when he was on the other end.

Yes, as long as he was chasing monsters he could forget about his own demons.

And honestly, three weeks ago, he would have been overjoyed to be standing on a piss-covered street in New Orleans hanging with the locals. But something had happened, and he couldn't shake the feeling that his father had sent him to the Gulf to put distance between himself and his oldest son. Dean tried not to let it bother him that his father refused to open up and tell him what had made him withdraw and harbor secrets for the past few weeks. Heaven knows, John Winchester wasn't known for his "family meetings." The thought of Sam, John, and himself sitting at a table and actually having any sort of familial conversation caused a deep chuckle to form and seep into the heat drenched air.

The unexpected sound drew a glance from his drunken companion. Those bulbous eyes focused on him for a long, assessing moment. However, the wayward soul made no outward motion to move toward him. He didn't think that the man had the energy to move given his emaciated appearance. Dean searched his witty repertoire for something to say to put himself and the other fellow at ease, but stopped when he saw the man slump with artless abandon to the street below. The change in the unknown man's behavior was sudden but not entirely unexpected given his state of intoxication.

The almost empty bottle of bourbon rolled with tiny clinks to stop only inches away from the old man's chapped feet. For months after his mother's death, Dean could remember cleaning up his father when he had been in a similar condition. The ghost of his recent smile faded as he thought of the countless times that John had come stumbling into whatever half priced escape he had deemed appropriate for the night.

Sometimes he was jovial. On those nights, he would sit Dean on the end of the bed and tell him stories of past hunts and good times with his mother while Sammy slept in the bed next to them. Other nights he would berate and question, quizzing Dean with the authority of a rabid headmaster. John's questions were slurred and violent as he paced back and forth. He wanted to know what Dean would do if some hidden creature of the night came bursting through the door. He wanted to know what Dean would be capable of doing. How would he protect his little brother?

And then, there were the nights that John came in too late for Dean to wait up for him. Instead, he would curl up in a ball and eventually fall asleep in whatever piece of furniture was closest to the window. On those nights, John hadn't said a word. Instead, the smell of alcohol and cigar smoke had clung to him and spoke in a language of dark secrets and unwanted danger. Those were the nights that his father usual came in with a new bruise or a fresh cut; sometimes, to ease the pain in his soul, his father had went out looking for fights. If he couldn't kill the demon who murdered his wife, then he could beat the living shit out of a nameless biker in a seedy bar.

It was those nights that Dean would hear his father crying softly.

When he was feeling particularly daring, he would risk his father's wrath and pry open his eyes—just wide enough—so he could see his father, the mighty John Winchester, holding his head in his hands and repeating one word over and over again: _Mary_.

It was for that quietly weeping man that Dean fought. He wanted his father to know that he was not alone. He wanted his father to know that at least Dean believed in family and wanted to preserve the few precious memories that he had of his mother. All it would take would be one call from his father and he would have gladly left his post and road happily back over the Mason Dixon line. But his father wasn't going to call. He knew that even as his hand reached down to ensure that his phone would be within reach if it were to make the slightest sound.

No his father wasn't going to call. John Winchester was far from New Orleans, running from his past and into a future as bleak as the night.

In fact, if it hadn't been for the interference of Bobby Singer, Dean would be with his father right now. He would be by his old man's side as they road along the black edges of the asphalt. But as usual, Bobby spouted some quaint southern philosophy that stiffened the resolve of John Winchester. Dean had tried to make his case; he was not going to New Orleans, because a hunter was never safe unless he had someone he trusted watching his back.

His father had nodded in agreement with Dean's sentiment and placed a large hand on his shoulder. The smile he had given his son was one that Dean had seen a thousand times: wide, full of love, and tinged with sadness. In lieu of a hug, he had applied gentle pressure to Dean's shoulder before removing his hand and picking up his duffle. With Dean watching, his father had gathered all of his belongings and headed toward the door. His parting advice had been another sad smile, followed by a short, gruffly given farewell: "Sometimes son, you have to learn to trust yourself."

So, with no other choice, Dean had loaded up his own duffle, rifles, and sundry other battle accoutrements and headed toward New Orleans. He had to admit that he had been a bit surprised when he had walked outside the motel to discover that his father had left him the Impala. It was almost as if leaving the car with his son had been John's apology for the fact that he hadn't always been the best father. Or maybe it was to reconcile with Dean, because he was leaving him behind. Dean refused to think that the car was a parting gift. Something his father had given him, because he thought they would never see each other again.

He would see his father again. As soon as this job was over, Dean was heading to Stanford to get Sammy and they were going to track their father down. It was time that his family realized that they were stronger together than they ever were apart. The thought of barging into Sam's room and tossing his pocket protectors around brought back his smile.

Sam thought that he could run from this life. He thought that he could bury his nose in books and facts and forget about where he had come from and the things that he had seen. Well, it was about time that his egg-headed little brother remembered that there was more to life than school books and writing papers.

Life had taught Dean more than any book ever could.

For example at the moment, he looked down at his watch; he was beginning to think that he was being good and stood up by the mysterious young woman that he was supposed to have met at this very spot over an hour ago. Since he father had been so eager to cut and run, it had been Bobby who had given Dean the information he needed about the job. Bobby's had told Dean that he was coming to New Orleans to meet a woman.

Before Dean could release a sigh, much less a quick witted reply involving sexual innuendo, Bobby had cut him off saying: "You just keep your damn hands to yourself this time boy. That girl's been through hell and half a Georgia and she doesn't need you comin' in screwing around, playing hide the wienerschnitzel."

Given the tone of Bobby's voice, Dean was well aware that the old man was very serious about him keeping his hands off this sainted portrait of womanhood. Dean had also listened carefully as Bobby had given him a rough sketch of the young woman's life. Her name was Naomi Laurent. Her father, mother, and sister were all killed by demons four years prior. Bobby went on to explain that because of the deaths of her parents Naomi was being chased by a very powerful voodoo queen.

Dean had been a bit perplexed as to how a demon killing would have anything to do with voodoo. When he had told Bobby as much, the older hunter's reply had been; "You just keep your damn mouth shut. If she wants you to know what happened to her then she will tell you. Otherwise, you just hold the gun and shoot where she points."

With that said, Bobby had hung up the phone and Dean had continued driving down the interstate. He had to admit, he was a little impressed with the legend surrounding the young woman. His conversation with Bobby had prompted him to stop at a few hunter hang outs between Tulsa, where he had been with his father, and New Orleans.

Naomi Laurent wasn't a hunter and not many people knew anything about her, but one thing was for sure, everyone who knew even an iota about her past respected the hell out of her. The legend, as it had been told to Dean, stated that she was only fifteen when she walked in and found her father planning her wedding to a man she had never met. According to a very flowery hunter with tobacco lodged between his gums and lips, Naomi took one look at her young caller and forgot the fact that she had no idea who he was. Apparently, it had only taken one look from him for her to fall in love. The eloquent gentleman, who Dean later learned was called "Snake", went on to say that it was a whirlwind courtship which led to marriage.

Naomi and her "white knight" as the young man to whom she was married was often called left for Paris the day after their wedding. Little is known about her time in Paris. Dean was able to surmise that while there, the young woman had realized that something was wrong with her husband—like the fact that his eyes turned black on their own volition. There was also some talk about him having her under some sort of spell as well, but the larger consensus believed that he was possessed by a demon. Either way upon realizing that he was not the noble fellow that she once thought he was, she fought her way out of the home she had built with him and had come home to a family that hated the very sight of her. Again, Dean was met with the supposition that her family hated her because they too had been possessed by demons or under a spell.

At this point in the story, Dean had been regaled with tales of torture. Sometimes Naomi had been beaten, or molested, or violated under a plethora accounts of degradation that one person can inflict on the other. In other versions of the tale, she had saved her younger brother from dying at the hands of their possessed father before burning the entire house down with her hell-infested family inside. However, each retelling of the story had the same ending. Naomi Laurent lost her family, but made it her life's mission to protect the streets of New Orleans from things that even hunter's feared.

Every bar, truck stop, and den of iniquity that Dean had pulled into had spoken her name with deference and awe. They called her _Lady de la Nuit._ Lady of the Night. When Dean had been given the moniker by a burly man sporting a ZZTop beard, he had laughed out right and stated that she sounded more like a hooker than a heroine. Long beard hadn't like the insinuation, so he had picked Dean up by the collar of his leather jacket and promptly thrown him out of the bar.

If he were being honest with himself, he would admit that she, _Lady de la Nuit,_ intrigued him enough for him to continue to stand underneath a street lamp in the shady part of New Orleans surrounded by winos, prostitutes, and other unidentified creatures of the night. Of course, he didn't believe anything he had heard from his travels. She protected New Orleans from things that even hunters feared? The very thought of any such entity made Dean scoff. He had seen his father fight countless hell spawn without even flinching. It was hard to believe that some hoity-toity Parisian miss could fight off and defeat something that John Winchester would run from (even if there were such creatures.)

He wanted to meet the woman and debunk the legend that made hard nosed bikers and gape toothed criminal types bow their heads. Hell, a few of them even crossed themselves at the mention of her name! The whole story was farfetched and created by some undersexed whack-a-doo who thought that adding a pretty lady to a story would give the tourist something to yammer about. Truth be known, this woman, this Naomi Laurent, was probably some bon-bon eating, muumuu wearing yokel who yowled in terror at the sight of an uplifted toilet seat much less a voodoo queen. No, Dean wasn't going any damn where. His father wasn't going to call him. His brother didn't want to talk to him, but he could wait here all night to unwind the gossamer thread that had strung together the tale of this fabled lady.

_Damn. Shit. Hell._ Naomi Laurent glanced at her watch and let out yet another stream of mental expletives. She was late. She was late to meet the hunter that Bobby Singer had sent to help her with a problem more precious than any amount of gold. Of course, her tardiness was not something that she had planned. Oh no, she had planned to meet Dean Winchester at the corner of St. Charles and Napoleon at 7:30. From the moment she had left her home, her night had gone to pieces.

First Ms. Ruthie, her live in housekeeper and long time friend, had called a few moments after Naomi's departure to tell her that Oliver had a fever. At the thought of anything being wrong with her little brother, Naomi had turned her red pick up truck around and went back home. Oliver's forehead had been drenched with sweat and his dark brown eyes had looked pleadingly at Naomi. She knew that he wanted her to stay, but he didn't ask. He knew that the work she was doing was far too important. Instead, he had coughed and told her to get out. She had smiled at the authoritative voice that her sickly sibling had tried to use. Ms. Ruthie assured her that everything would be fine and that she probably didn't want to keep the hunter waiting for too long.

Naomi had nodded in acquiescence as Ms. Ruthie stated that she could take care of one sick child. Naomi knew that the older woman could. Ms. Ruthie had been with her family since Naomi was a small girl. She could still remember the sweet taste of candied pralines and creamy hot chocolate that the older woman had given her when she had been sick. The woman doted on her and the rest of her family with the fussiness of an overbearing grandmother. However, even with the conciliation that Ollie would be with Ms. Ruthie, Naomi still went into his room to give him one last kiss on his forehead along with the promise that she would bring him some rocky road ice cream on her way back home. Her brother had nodded at her offer and held up his pinky finger as he did every time she walked out the door.

"Don't die." He told her as he coughed long and deep.

Naomi gave in to the urge to kiss him again before locking her pinky with his; "I'll be around to bug you for a long time kid. Now get some rest."

She had given Ms. Ruthie instructions to call her if Ollie's fever went up even a tenth of a degree. The older woman had nodded and had given her a kiss on the cheek before Naomi had once again traveled out into the night.

Her truck broke down at 7:23. She had known that it was coming. The damn truck was as old as the hills and Ms. Ruthie kept harping that it was time for Naomi to buy another car. Her housekeeper just couldn't seem to wrap her mind around the fact that there was no money in the family coffers that would allow for such a purchase. Needless to say, Naomi had soon found herself on the side of the road peering into the mouth of her vehicle as she tried to figure out what in the hell had popped off or fallen out this time. Of course, it was hard for her to see anything what with the large breath of smoke that had puffed up and slapped her in the face the moment she had peered inside.

There was a part of her that wanted to jump up and down in frustration, and an even larger part wanted to find a crowbar and begin pounding on the jalopy with fervent disregard for the fact that it was her only mode of transportation. Of course, she hadn't done either. She had merely kicked the front tire and shouted a word that would have had Ms. Ruthie cleaning her mouth out with lye soap. She hadn't had time to call for a tow and the more sadistic side of her was slightly satisfied with the fact that she was leaving the old beater in a neighborhood where passing junkies might devour what was left of it in an effort to sell their findings for their next fix. So, she had left the truck sitting on the side of the road and had restarted her sojourn to the corner of St. Charles and Napoleon on foot.

Bobby had told her that the hunter she was going to meet was driving a '67 Chevrolet Impala. She just hoped that when she finally got to her destination that he and his car would still be there. Of course, it had been her own stupidity that she had not thought to tell Bobby to give the other hunter her phone number. Naively, she had thought that the night would go according to plan.

She should have known better.

Now because of her choice in vehicle, Naomi would feel honor bound to spend the rest of her evening apologizing to some uneducated mullet wearing man who shot first and asked questions later. Of course, Bobby hadn't said that was what Dean Winchester looked like, but given his choice in vehicle she couldn't help but imagine a man with a potbelly leaning against the hood of the Impala. In her imagination, he was wearing a Led Zepplin shirt and had a mustache that curved at both ends. She knew that it was petty to judge another person by their vehicle. She was sure that if she had to be identified by her currently defunct pick up that another person may think that she was a muumuu wearing yokel with two good teeth in her mouth.

In all honesty, she didn't care if Dean Winchester turned out to be an albino hippy with a foot fetish. He was in New Orleans to help her. Bobby Singer, a man that she trusted as much as Ms. Ruthie had given her his seal of approval. He had said that Dean Winchester was the kind of man that she would want by her side given her current circumstances. Since Bobby wasn't the kind of man to spout out such pleasantries, Naomi already respected the hunter. She just wished that his first impression of her wouldn't be that she was some lazy female who thought that everyone would wait for her to arrive. She wasn't that kind of woman.

She hated that kind of woman.

Naomi liked to think of herself as an honest woman who wanted to help people. That need to help was why she had researched and studied from the moment she had escaped from Stephen and found her way back home. In fact, it had been Bobby Singer who had taught her most of what she knew about the night and what lurked in it. The man had a special place in her heart despite his cantankerous manner. He had given her the skills to look, learn, and watch what moved in the distance. He had taught her that there was more to this world than the evil of man.

Naomi's thoughts of Bobby and what he had done for her were scattered like leaves in the wind when she heard a familiar shuffle from behind her. After all, the undead had a distinctive gait. She turned around to see two corpses shuffling toward her. From the looks of them, they were recently turned. Madame Renauld preferred to raise the newly dead, because their brain matter was still intact enough to receive and process basic instruction. Neither body looked as if they had been dead for more than a few weeks. The woman, who looked to be around fifty-five and dressed in her funeral garb of black, stumbled toward her. Drool slid down her mouth as she took long efficient strides toward Naomi.

Naomi was not impressed with the drooling effect. She knew that the woman was not drooling in anticipation of tearing into her young, nubile flesh. The woman was simply secreting formaldehyde.

Her companion was male. Given the fact that he looked to be around twenty-three and sported a gun shot would that gaped open at the back of his skull, Naomi was able to quickly surmise that he was none other than Bertrand Lowell; the young black man who had killed himself because his mother did not approve of his relationship with a young Hispanic woman from the other side of the parish. His face, unlike that of the older zombie, had been plastered on the news for the past two weeks.

Given the fact that Madame Renauld had no clue that she would be at this exact spot tonight; Naomi was not under the impression that this was a personal attack. However, it still pissed her off. She hoped that her savior in the Impala would wait just a few more minutes while she took care of this immediate threat. With a sigh, she dropped her bag and looked at her opponents. They were circling. Zombies loved to circle their victims. She supposed in their rapidly disintegrating minds, they found it threatening and befuddling to those they planned to kill.

They just picked the wrong girl for their first night out.

Grandma Zombie was the first to make her move. Despite what most horror movies portray, the newly dead could move rather swiftly regardless of rigor mortis. Especially if the magic that brought them back was dark enough. Anyway, grandma lunged at Naomi with the intent to kill. Her jaws, still seeping with the noxious fluid, were open in anticipation of biting a large chunk out of her throat.

Naomi remained calm. That was her secret. Nothing scared her anymore, because she had nothing left to be scared of. She watched, in silent detachment as the monster leapt toward her. She waited for the perfect moment before she moved with graceful dignity. Her leg shot up like a dancer stretching to connect with the jaw of grandma. The zombie growled at having its teeth knocked together and stumbled backward. Still breathing evenly, Naomi searched her surroundings looking for something to end the threat. Both corpses continued to advance.

She spotted her quarry in the form of a standard gardening hoe. Some inattentive landscaper must have left it behind while trying to get the hell out of this neighborhood before the sun went down.

There were other humans out. Naomi made eye contact with a few as they moved quickly to get out of the way of her and the zombies. Junkies dipped into crevices that only they knew existed. Prostitutes moved hurriedly down sidewalks; the click clack of their hills echoing furiously. There was even a cop. Yes, a member of the community who was meant to protect and serve. Naomi saw him and he averted his eyes. They all new what she was doing. They all knew what she was. And it scared them to the point of avoidance.

She was used to being alone. Slowly, so as not to alert the zombies to the presence of anyone other than herself, Naomi began to move toward her chosen weapon. The movements of the three mimicked an odd ballet. With every step she took, the two undead moved as well. They would parry to each of her thrust and vice versa. She wanted them to think that they were evenly matched. She could find no lore either confirming or denying that these creatures thought at all, but as with any opponent one had to take every possibility into consideration. Fortunately, Naomi knew she had brain cells on her side, so she hoped her prey had no idea that she was leading them to the spot of their demise. Of course, it would have been helpful if one of the awestruck bystanders would have picked up the garden hoe and handed it to her, but if someone did that then they would have to acknowledge the fact that the crescent city was currently under the chaotic rule of a voodoo priestess. She envied their ignorance and loathed their methods of handling it.

The even rhythm of her heartbeat guided her toward the gardening tool. The zombies lashed out and sought first blood with ever step, but Naomi drowned out the threat of immediate danger by following her heart. It might sound cliché to others, but the soothing syncopated rhythm of that one particular organ made her focus. As long as she remained calm, the world and all of its dangerous wonders remained crystal clear. She was not going to die tonight.

Swiftly, she used her foot to kick the tool in the air and caught it before it could clatter back to the ground. She made sure to keep the sharp end toward the zombie. Of course, she wasn't lucky enough to have found a weapon with a nice serrated edge, but she would make due with the blunt object that had been provided.

Being the more voracious of the two, grandma lunged again. This provided Naomi with the perfect opportunity to remove the zombie's head. She used the zombie's momentum against it and struck mid air. It only took a few seconds for the gardening hoe, moving with the force of Naomi's violent movements, to hit home. The zombie was soon cleaved to the wooden door of an abandoned home with the gardening hoe that had been left behind.

Naomi screamed out in pain when she realized that Bertrand had used her preoccupation with his companion to attack her from behind. His teeth tore violently into her shoulder. She could feel the pressure and the pain as he bit and ripped away flesh and fabric. Still she fought to remain calm. She had made a promise to her brother. _She was not going to die tonight_. With a precise kick to the remaining zombie's stomach, she was able to force him away from her body. There were no more weapons strewn around the yard. The only remnants of any human occupation consisted of a needle, a honey bun wrapper, and a crumbled pack of Marlboro Lights. None of which were deadly to the undead.

_Shit. Damn. Hell. _Naomi looked around for something, anything. She smiled when she saw the police cruiser. The officer who had made eye contact with her moments earlier had opened the door of the vehicle to remove a pad and a piece of paper. He was standing at the back of the car talking to a suspect or a stool pigeon. Naomi didn't know what their relation was to one another and didn't care. Instead, she picked Bertrand up and moved quickly toward the car. Her shoulder screamed in pain as she drug, fought, lifted the man. The officer and his companion looked her way with wide eyes. They had seen her struggling. They had seen her as she had been bitten. Neither had helped, but now they both wore offended expressions as she brought her unclean existence into the real world they inhabited.

Bertrand bit her again. This time he sunk his teeth into the flesh above her knee. White hot pain burned into her nerve endings. Her breath caught and she stumbled. She wanted to fall to the ground and wail at the agony provided by the still clamping jaws of the predator she held. However, if she were to stumble, then the monster would be set free. She could not allow that to happen. She would not allow others to die, because they did not or chose not to realize that humans were not the only inhabitants of the Earth. So as usual, she fought internally to maintain the pain and used the last bit of energy she could muster to haul Bertrand's flailing body toward the car.

He snipped and snapped as she fought to put his head in the correct position between the door and the driver's seat. Again, Officer Friendly and company continued to stare. Naomi didn't have time to be offended. Instead, she slammed the door as hard as she could on Bertrand's neck. The zombie yelled. The sound wasn't one of agony—that he could no longer feel—no, this sound echoed with the volatile rage of defeat.

His torso, hands and feet continued to thrash haphazardly. As long as he was moving, she knew that she had not finished her job, because the truly dead were a fixed point— meaning, the world moved around them, but they remained cold, ambivalent, and unmoving to the meanderings of those that moved above ground.

She slammed the door again to discover that Bertrand Lowell as a zombie had a hell of a lot more fight in him than the human Bertrand. Alive, he had allowed others to dictate the choices he made and had ended his life, because he did not want to defy their expectations. Dead, the man was the very epitome of a fighter. His neck was barely hanging on, but still he managed to fight the good fight and kick the crap out of Naomi. Finally, on the third violent slam of the door, Bertrand's head fell onto the front seat of the cruiser.

Naomi closed her eyes and pushed down the pain. She picked up the severed head and knocked it into the street. She made no move to remove the gore from the officer's seat, just as he had made no move when he had seen her fighting for her life. She limped toward the spot where she had previously dropped her bag. Once she had it slung over her uninjured shoulder, she limped passed the officer, junkies, prostitutes, and onlookers who had watched her battle and defeat the undead. She walked past them unaffected and made no effort to acknowledge their presence.

She could feel the venom seeping through her shoulder and knee. It was hot and warm. When a person is bitten by a zombie, they do not immediately turn into a mindless creature. As with all things, there is a process. First, the person begins to stumble around and act as if they are inebriated. Their speech is slurred and their gait unsteady. If this stage is not annihilated with the correct medicine, then the victim will eventually fall asleep. During this stage, the venom begins to move more quickly through the victim's system.

Ms. Ruthie had told her that the sleeping body absorbs the poison more quickly because the conscious mind can not fight off the intruder. While this made no sense to Naomi, she believed the other woman. After all, she had never lied to Naomi before.

After sleeping, the person woke up with an insatiable hunger. Depending on the proclivity of that person, or the vice that they avoided most in life, he or she would wake up with the need to break free of those shackles. So, the soul had to die first. From the moment that a person intentionally seeks out what he or she knows they should not have, their soul is tarnished and begins to die. When the soul is dead, the person dies as well, meaning that when a freshly bitten person loses his or her soul, the body rejects what is left of that soul or the blackened specter it is replaced with and begins to die. Naomi had seen the process drag out for several weeks and she had also seen a person simply fall over in the street.

She only knew, as she walked through the mass of people that had refused to help her, that she had just been bitten. She still had time to stop the virus, before she turned into one of the things she hunted.

"Hey!" An unnamed voice broke ranks from the onlookers to shout at her, "Who is going to clean this up?"

Naomi continued to walk. She felt light headed and groggy. She needed to get to Dean Winchester and then get home as soon as possible. She owed these people nothing.

She had done her civic duty. They could clean up and rebury the dead.

After all, she was late for an appointment.

"Hold your horse's boy. If she told you she would be there, then she'll be there." Bobby's voice was stern and worried.

Dean had called him to let him know that he wasn't going to wait on the living legend any longer. He had things to do and the longer he waited on her the farther his father traveled away from him. Bobby had become violently adamant that something must have gone wrong.

"Bobby, she didn't tell me anything. I haven't even met the woman"

There was a long, beleaguered sigh from the other end of the line. Dean could imagine the look of frustration on the older man's face; "I know she talked to me, not you. But I am telling you, my girl would not stand you up. Something is wrong. Damn wrong."

"Your girl? Is there something you want to share with the rest of the class Bobby?"

"Quit being so damn perverted. I've known her for a long time. She isn't the kind of woman that would keep a man waiting, for any reason. There is something wrong. If you would quit standing on the street corner like a two dollar hooker, maybe you could scout around. Hell, I thought you were a hunter."

He had never liked to have his manhood called into question. John Winchester had made it clear that his boys were to act like men, behave like men, and fight like men from the moment they lost their mother. And to have someone, even Bobby, question their manhood raised Dean's hackles. His father hadn't failed.

"Did you ever think that she just lied Bobby? I have bigger things to worry about than the problems of some overrated Buffy wannabe. I have an obligation to my family, but I do not have an obligation to this…"

Dean's voice trailed off when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He turned around to see a young woman. She was several inches shorter than him and her head was covered with the wildest, thickest curls he had ever seen. Her face was dirty and her arms and legs were covered with blood. His eyes roamed over her torn blue t-shirt and injured leg. She looked like she had been rode hard and put up wet. He was shocked that she was still able to look up at him calmly.

Her amber eyes were misted with pain, and he could tell that she was fighting with every breath she had, to remain upright. However, her body was far more stubborn than she, and she swayed forward. Her hands pressed gently into his chest. Even through his own shirt he could feel the otherworldly coolness of her skin. Dean didn't know how much blood she had lost, but he knew that what ever had happened, she was about to fall down and out in the middle of the urine covered street.

"Bobby, I've got to let you go. I've got an injured woman here. She may need to go the hospital." Dean didn't give Bobby time to reply. He hung up the phone and gently led the woman under the street lamp so he could get a better look at her. Her fair skin had no bruises. The only injury he could see was the vicious cuts on her arms and legs.

"What in the hell happened to you?" He didn't really expect an answer. Most trauma victims didn't feel like talking. And this woman looked like she had been through a trauma.

So, when she smiled at him, you could have knocked him over with a feather. Her lips were full and unmarred with out lipstick or lip gloss. Given her current state of injury, that should have been the last thing on Dean's mind, but he was a man who appreciated the finer things in life. He just happened to notice that her lips were one of those finer things.

"You should see the other guy." She whispered, still smiling.

Anger poured through Dean's veins like hot lava. He didn't like the idea that someone had hurt this woman, any woman for that matter. But if a man had violently used this woman, he was going to find the son of a bitch and beat him within an inch of his life and dump his body in the nearest woods as an offering to some blood crazed creature.

"Who is he? Who is this guy who hurt you?" He kept his voice calm and conversational less she get skittish or begin to cry. He couldn't deal with tears. In fact, he wasn't used to dealing with women unless they were underneath him and naked. In his mind, women were a lot like cars. They were fun to get inside and take for a ride, but before one was permanently put in a garage the owner had to make sure their purchase wasn't going to put a strain on your finances. And you sure as hell had to be wary of previous owners if you happened to purchase a used one.

"Zombies." She swayed again. " If my damn truck hadn't broken down…Damn zombies. Damn voodoo. Can't even meet Impala Man without being waylaid."

"Impala Man? Me?" He grinned. Here she was The Lady of the Friggin' Night, injured, and swaying in his arms due to blood loss. She didn't look like a legend. She looked like a beaten little girl. "Naomi?" He stopped for a moment when what she had said fully registered in his mind. "Wait, zombies? Did you just say zombies? As in _Night of the Living Dead_ zombies?"

She nodded, and then grimaced when the movement made her head feel even lighter than it already did. Dean knew he should get her out of the street; evidently she had lost a lot of blood and most likely needed to go to the hospital, but nobody had said a damn thing about zombies.

"Yup." Her voice was a bit slurred when she spoke; "Was bit twice by one. Hurt like a son of a bitch. Need to get home."

"You were bitten by a zombie?" Dean felt like he had been dropped into a poorly plotted George Romero flick. The woman standing in front of him had just been bitten by a zombie and she wanted to go home? He couldn't let that happen. "I can't let you go home. You are a danger to others…"

She laughed. It was low and throaty and just a bit shaky, like she didn't get to laugh very often. "Not like movies. I need Ms. Ruthie to help. Ollie needs ice cream too."

She was delirious. Dean was about to give her the common platitudes that a person under duress deserves, but he was distracted by the sound of shuffling come from behind him. He turned to see the drunk from earlier. The poor guy was finally upright and teetering toward Dean and Naomi on legs that didn't seem quite steady.

_So, Dean Winchester goes to New Orleans and ends up between a drunk and a crazy woman… _His situation appeared to be the beginning of a very bad joke. He just wasn't interested in being the punch line. Even though she was off her rocker, Dean felt as if Naomi was the lesser of two evils, so he let go of her and made his way toward the drunk. He was afraid that the man would become disoriented considering that he had just awakened on the side of the street. Dean was afraid that because of this he might become violent, and whatever Naomi had been through, he didn't know if she could handle much more violence.

"Hey!" Dean tried to keep his voice light. He didn't want to scare the drunk.

Slowly, the man turned toward Dean, those large, bulbous eyes of his glistened in the glow of the street lamp. When his eyes were on Dean's, he turned his head at an angle. Almost like he was sizing him up. Finally, Dean's instincts focused. Finally, the scales fell away and his frowned.

"Son of a bitch." He didn't know if he was talking to himself or his adversary. He just knew that he had spent the better part of the night within reach of a zombie, but his mind had been so focused on his father that he hadn't noticed the danger.

The zombie leapt forward. Dean winced when he noticed that a pungent and very viscous fluid was coming from the creature's mouth. _Son of a BITCH._ He had no weapons handy. They were all locked up tight in the trunk of his car. Lot of good they were going to do him there now, but it was a bit hard to explain to an officer of the law exactly why he had a sawed off shotgun in his backseat.

Dean moved quickly; his need to live over ruling his thoughts on weapon organization. Thankfully, his sudden movement diverted the zombie's intent of biting him on the shoulder. While the zombie tried to refocus, Dean looked around. In the sudden melee, he had forgotten that Naomi was standing out in the open. Could she defend herself? Or was the legend surrounding her simply a make believe story told to the locals so they might feel safe in their beds? More importantly, could she defend herself in her current state? A cursory glance of the parking lot revealed that she was not present. Where in the hell had she gone?

It took Naomi longer than usual to pop the Impala's trunk. If she were in a normal state of mind, she would have had the vehicle infiltrated in less than thirty seconds. Thankfully, Dean was doing a wonderful job of keeping the zombie at bay. When the creature had first attacked, she had looked around for something useful. A quick, but unsteady glance into the back of car had revealed nothing but an old issue of _Busty Asian Beauties_ and an empty pie box. Certainly not tools of destruction. However, when she had forced her mind to focus, she had figured that for an experienced hunter, the trunk would be the best place to hide his weapons.

The cache of weaponry hidden in the back solidified and verified that notion. She giggled when she saw all of the toys inside. Wait…she shook her head…she didn't giggle. She also didn't usually get the sensation that she was going to pass out, but she was getting it now. She needed to get home. Soon. But first, she had to get the zombie away from Dean, and that would require all her concentration. She looked for the calm within herself and tried not to think about the zombie venom. She remembered that Ms. Ruthie had told her that the conscious mind could hold the disease at bay if it were strong enough.

She needed for Ms. Ruthie to be right. So, Naomi closed her eyes and tried to control the foreign entity in her body.

She ignored Dean's grunts as he fought with his opponent.

She ignored the savage snarls of the zombie.

She ignored the distant wail of sirens.

And concentrated on the beating of her heart.

_Thump…Thump…Thump…Thump_

Her breath eased out as she internalized all the bad and focused on getting home to her family. On seeing Ollie and Ms. Ruthie. On explaining to Dean Winchester why she wanted him to help her.

When Naomi opened her eyes again, the world came into sharp focus. She looked back into the trunk and grabbed the first thing she saw: a sawed off shotgun. As she checked to ensure that there was ammunition inside, she made a mental note to create a similar hiding spot in her own truck, if she ever got the damn thing fixed.

Dean was holding his own against the zombie. They were currently grappling on the hood of the Impala and Dean was making snarky comments about damage to the paint. Of course, his witticisms were falling on the deaf ears of the brain dead. However, everyone had their own ways of coping with a battle to the death. Naomi fought to hold her concentration and to ensure that she had a good shot, but with Dean so close she could not fire her weapon for fear that he might get caught in the crossfire. She would have to do something to draw the zombie away from Dean or get Dean away from the zombie.

Dean remembered that he had left his keys in the ignition when he felt the car move beneath him and the zombie. Also, he was able to easily locate Naomi once she leapt from the vehicle after putting it into drive. Dean knocked the zombie off of the car as he moved with controlled dexterity to the driver's side. Even the zombie seemed out of sorts at the sudden change of events. The undead creature ambled to the corner, apparently forgetting about Dean. Dean, however, all but jumped feet first through the open window to slam on the brakes. He had no idea what that crazy ass woman was up to, but he knew that she better be grateful that there wasn't a scratch on his car.

Gently, he ran his hand across the dashboard; "It's okay baby. That mean lady won't have a chance to hurt you again."

He imagined that if the car could talk, and let's face it, how cool would that be? That it would say how grateful she was to have an owner like Dean—a man who had a soft touch and knew how to appreciate a fine automobile such as herself. Not for the first time, Dean's imagination brought about what he thought his car would look like if it were suddenly transformed into a woman. Usually, it was a blonde with big blue eyes and a rack you could sit a beer on. Strangely, that was not what his subconscious conjured this time. For some reason, he saw amber eyes and a head of thick, wild curly hair.

"Son of a bitch." Dean hit the dash, counteracting his earlier caress. That damn crazy ass woman, who he had known all of five minutes, had managed to get him involved with zombies. ZOMBIES! Tried to crash his car and now she had dared to try and infiltrate the sanctity of his sexy time fantasies about his car.

Oh, he had to shoot something.

He got out of the car almost as quickly as he had gotten in. His shoulders felt tense, and righteous anger rolled off him in waves. Not only had he spent a good portion of his evening with a dead guy, but the woman that he had been waiting for had shown up late. That same woman had put his car in danger and was most likely certifiable. Hell yes, he could justify every hot ball of anger that had settled in his stomach. With a look of determination Dean set his jaw and began to make his way toward Naomi and the zombie.

He had only taken one purposeful step when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Dean turned around ready for battle. Not for the first time that night, he was met with a surprise of the female persuasion. She was dressed for business. Her bleached blond hair was slick with sweat and her form fitting dress hugged curves that bulged at the sides and back from years of unhealthy living. She smelled like squalor and desperation and he hoped that she didn't think he was going to take her up on the invitation that he saw in her eyes.

She shook her head and kept her hand on his shoulder. When she spoke, Dean was assaulted with the acrid smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol; "Naw Sugah. You need to leave her alone."

"Excuse me?" The woman's overly articulated southern drawl coupled with the nasty smell of her breath made it hard for Dean to understand her.

Again, this lurid lady of the evening shook her head, this time in pity; "That one." She tilted her greasy head toward Naomi and reached into her bra to pull out a pack of smashed cigarettes. Dean averted his gaze at her action, because he really didn't want to know what else she had hidden in there. "That one," she repeated as she lit the cigarette, "can take care of herself."

It took him a moment to glean the meaning behind her words, but once he did absorb the gist of what she was saying he was dumbfounded. His eyes surveyed his surroundings to discover that others were watching Naomi as well. He had seen some of the same people meandering up and down the sidewalk for most of the evening. Now, every degenerate and ne'r do well had stopped in his or her tracks to become spectators to the event that was currently unfolding. When Dean's gaze finally settled back on Naomi and the zombie, he could see the reason for their need to watch.

Despite her wounds and delirium, she moved with dignity and purpose. Her body was taut with readiness and her eyes glinted with ferocity. She looked exactly how the prostitute had described her—as someone who could take care of herself. He also noticed that she had his shot gun. For some reason, the thought that she had popped open the Impala's trunk to extricate a weapon of her choosing before sending him and his car careening toward the backside of a building made him chuckle. Damned if it didn't make him like her a little as well.

At that moment, she and the zombie were facing each other. The dead wino was snapping and clawing. His attack was repetitive and animalistic. His hands were batting at her with murderous intent. Naomi wasn't even flinching. She was assessing the predator with skill and concentration. Dean admired the fact that she was able to concentrate on the fact that she was in the heat of battle rather than giving in to the pain that was no doubt tormenting her with every move. Unfortunately, the zombie seemed to have the same wherewithal. For every lunge or countermove that Naomi presented, he was able to supply the same defensive strategy. There was an art and grace to the battle that held Dean just as entranced as the other onlookers.

Even covered in blood and battling fiercely with her stolen weapon, Dean could not remember a time that he had seen anything more beautiful than this odd woman who had pushed him out of the way so that she could take the brunt of the battle. He was still pissed at her, and he was definitely going to lay down some ground rules if they were going to work together. However, and he would never admit this to another living soul, he couldn't help but feel a little honored that she had valued his life above her own. Not many people would have given him the same respect.

Dean wanted to help her. He wanted to stroll out of the darkness and stand by her side. It was not in his nature to cower, but he wanted to watch these two combatants. He wanted to see if Naomi was the stuff of legends. Most importantly, he felt as if he were compelled to stay put. As if some unseen force was willing him to stay back, because she had deemed it her duty to save his life. To test that fact, Dean willed his foot to move; he willed his hand to move; hell, he even tried to make his ass clinch. Nothing happened. His body felt as if it were not his own. He couldn't move, speak, or blink. So, against his nature and better judgment, he remained on the sidelines with the rest of the silent automatons while Naomi fought for her life.

There was something primal and defiant about each of her movements. Her every move was lethal and fluid. When the zombie lunged, she changed her grip on the gun and held it like a batter at the plate. The move had been so quick that Dean wondered if it was something that she had practiced to impress the throng of onlookers that appeared. He also saw the grimace of pain that decorated her face as she swung and smashed the barrel end of the rife against the zombie's cheek with maximum force. Again, he tried to move. He felt as if he needed to protect her. To everyone else, she might have looked like a protector, but to him she looked like a scared little girl who was in pain. With every step he tried to make, his body defied his mental orders and refused to allow him to move.

The zombie stumbled backward; Naomi switched her handle on the gun and fired one time into the night. The dark lot was momentarily illuminated with the fire red explosion that emanated from the gun's end. Dean watched the scene curiously hoping that this violent tableau would soon disperse so he could get some answers. Fortunately, the bullet aimed true and landed in the center on her intended mark—the zombie's forehead. The creature hit the ground. There was no sound. He simply fell back, landing a few feet away from Naomi; his arms and legs akimbo.

This time when he told his legs to work; they listened. He jogged toward Naomi and noticed that the bite on her shoulder was bleeding and that she was having trouble standing. When he was in front of her, he took the weapon and grabbed her arm. Her amber eyes were glinting feverishly at him.

"Killed him." She gave him a lopsided grin as she made her statement.

Dean couldn't stop his own grin; "You sure did Annie Oakley."

Naomi swayed a bit and Dean finally said to hell with it and picked her up. He would call Bobby on the way to find out where she lived. She had said earlier that she needed someone named Ms. Ruthie, well, after the way she had fought, he supposed that if that's what she needed then that's what she would get.

She didn't protest when he picked her up. He figured that she would have some feminist line of protest at a man helping her. Instead of arguing, she put her head on his shoulder. She felt hot and was covered with sweat. Dean could feel her breath hit his cheek as she took short staccato burst of air in and out. Whatever was happening to her, he had to get her help as soon as possible.

"Can't fall asleep." Her voice was soft and weak as she shared this knowledge.

Dean believed her. He didn't know a damn thing about zombies, but he felt that the woman in his arms had enough knowledge to know what she was talking about.

"Alright, just keep talking. I need to make a phone call, but you just yak away." Dean gave the order as he put her gently in the passenger seat and pulled out his cell to call Bobby.

Naomi could smell leather. She could feel the summer breeze as it touched her face. She was so hot. She felt as if her blood had been boiled and then poured into her veins. All she wanted to do was sleep. She wanted to close her eyes and pray that the pain melted away. _He_ wouldn't let her. Every time she closed her eyes for more than thirty seconds, he would do something to jar her back to reality. She wished he would go away and shut the hell up.

"Can't do that." His deep voice came from the seat next to hers and she turned her feverish gaze to look at him.

Apparently, the asshole could read minds too.

"I'm not reading your mind." His voice was tinged with male amusement. "You are saying those words out loud. In the past five minutes, you have called me an ill bred redneck, Satan's ass monkey, and an asshole. If you keep talking like that, I will begin to think that you don't like me."

She frowned and when she spoke, Naomi chose not to notice that her voice was weak or that she sounded like a petulant child who had been denied her daily treat; "I don't like you. I want you to go far, far away. I want everyone to just leave me alone and let me get some sleep."

Again, he chuckled. She wanted to turn her head away from him and pout, but she couldn't muster up the energy to do so. She didn't know how, but she was working on a way to make her current state his fault. Yes, she was sure that if she thought long and hard enough she could blame the entire night on Dean Winchester. Damn stupid man. It's a shame that men who looked like he did were ornery and mean. She had fallen for a pretty face before. That had certainly ended badly.

Stephen had been classically handsome and had a suave European air about him that had pulled her in. He had thick blonde hair and blue eyes that made her think that she could spend the rest of her life looking at him and him alone. She had been blinded by his good looks and lead down a path of debauchery and sin because of it. He had used her in ways that no women should ever be used and she refused to bumble down the same path again.

However, she was a woman and couldn't help but notice that Dean Winchester certainly didn't fit the profile of her notorious Impala Man. He didn't have a mullet and there was no potbelly insight. In fact, now that she didn't have to fight off zombies left and right, she could appreciate the man. He had a look about him that screamed "take me to bed." His face was strong and noble with eyes that assessed his surroundings and glinted with humor, but his best asset by far were his lips. Naomi had never seen a man with lips that full. They should have made him look feminine, but instead they gave his face a soft point of interest. Those lips were designed for kissing.

Naomi shifted in her seat and she imagined having those lips on her.

Lord, it had been such a long time since she had been kissed. She was willing to bet that Dean Winchester knew how to kiss. She bet he was the type of man who led with his lips while his hands caressed with finite gentleness. Her eyes moved down to his hands. They were large with calluses and scars. They were the hands of a real man—the kind of hands that could pummel evil but touch those that he loved with tenderness. Naomi continued to have her lurid fantasy about the man sitting next to her until she was jarred from her musings by the car going off the road.

"Sorry." Dean cleared his throat. "Could you not be so damn descriptive? A man can only take so much."

_Shit. Damn. Hell._ She had been talking. He had heard everything she had said. Good grief. Could this night possible get any worse? She hoped that she was actually asleep and that she would wake up tomorrow and not have to worry about the fact that for the first time in a while she had noticed a man in a sexual way and he had heard her prurient fantasies while she had been describing them.

"Sorry." She chose to let the word out on a sigh and hope that he wouldn't make the situation any worse.

"No apologies are needed. I'm impressed. It is not every day that I find a woman that can fight like you do and with such an interesting imagination. If the circumstances were different, I would be taking you to a hotel instead of home."

She had no idea how in the hell she was supposed to remark on that statement. Dean, who reached out to turn the radio up, obviously didn't need an answer from her anyway. Naomi didn't say a word for the rest of the trip. She was afraid to even think less she spew her deepest and darkest secrets to a man she didn't even know. She let her head lull to the side and she fought to keep her eyes open.

The city passed by them in a streak of shapes and colors.

Ruthie Mae Dubois did not like what she was seeing. She held back the silk lace curtain in the living room and watched as a young man brought Naomi up the walk. She looked pale, and even with nothing but the street lamp to light the way, Ruthie could see the blood. That damn foolish girl was bound and determined to get herself killed. With a sigh, she opened the front door.

The young man looked up and Ruthie was taken back by the sorrow she felt emanating from those eyes. The boy who held her charge had seen things that no one so young should be privy to. She could see it in the set of his jaw and the way he held himself. Her heart went out to him.

"Are you Ms. Ruthie?" He asked the question as he brought Naomi into the house and laid her gently on the couch.

"I am." She skirted the boy and went to lay her hand on Naomi's forehead. The girl was burning up. She looked up at her visitor; "Are you the hunter? Dean Winchester?"

"Yes ma'am."

She smiled; "Manners. I like manners in a young man. Now tell me Dean, what in the hell as this foolish girl gotten herself into this time?"

"She was bitten twice by a zombie."

"But I kicked their asses good Ms. Ruthie." Naomi didn't open her eyes, but Ruthie was glad to know that the girl had remembered not to give into the urge to fall asleep.

"Now, you watch your mouth Naomi Renee. I don't care if you are on death's door. I won't have that kind of talk. You hear?"

Naomi smiled. Her lips were cracked and parched; "Yes ma'am."

Ruthie grinned. Lord but she loved this child. She got up, her round backside knocking against the coffee table as she moved. She leaned over Naomi and kissed her gently on the forehead before meeting Dean's gaze.

"Do you think you can hold her down while I administer some medicine?"

He nodded. Ruthie liked the fact that he didn't ask questions. Asking too many questions about medicine and her family' recipes had gotten many a young man killed. She liked the looks of this young man—with his sad eyes and pouting lips—she was glad that he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

She smiled; "Helpful and manners? You best be glad I'm an old woman."

Dean blushed and it thrilled her to the tips of her orthopedic shoes to know that she still had the capability to do that to a man.

"What kind of medicine are you going to give her?"

Ruthie inched closer to the boy and whispered; "It's an old family recipe." She looked back at Naomi and shook her head; "It is going to hurt like hell, so be ready to hold her down when I say so. That one can be a real hell cat when she wants to."

Dean looked back at Naomi's figure as well, and Ruthie was pleased to see that the young man smiled at her resting form with warmth; "Yes ma'am. I have already figured that out for myself."

To Be Continued in Shackles: Part Two


	2. Shackles Part Two

31

Shackles Part Two:

What happened next was something straight out of the _Exorcist _(minus the head spinning and unseemly use of a crucifix). Ms. Ruthie came back into the room carrying a mason jar and an old cloth. Her mouth was pursed and the mocha colored skin around her mouth looked taut with worry and disapproval as she stared at Naomi. As she stood there, he couldn't help but think that the woman looked wise, ancient. She looked at those in her presence as if she could read their inner thoughts. However, her matronly authority was not stifling or threatening. It was soothing. She had a way about her that put others at ease, and Dean really needed to be put at ease after the night he had.

Ms. Ruthie was like a cool drink on a long hot day. Her authority took some pressure off of

Dean even though this was his job. He had no doubts that the woman could handle this situation and any others that were thrown in her way. She certainly handled things differently than his father who would have already killed Naomi in an effort to stop her transformation.

Dean knew that the same thought should be running through his mind; she was turning into a monster. Monsters could not be suffered. But he couldn't do it. Well, he could have. In fact, he had thought about it briefly in the car. It would have been so easy to end her while she had been staring listlessly out of the window. But he couldn't. He just couldn't kill her, not when there was a chance that she might live. He hoped that he never saw the day when he would heartlessly kill a person who had a chance.

Dean watched transfixed as Ms. Ruthie covered her hand with the towel and stuck it into the black depths of the Mason jar. What she pulled out of the glass was dark, thick, and smelled like bile.

_Smelled like turpentine, looked like Indian ink. _

_I held my nose; I closed my eyes; I took a drink._

Dean shook his head and tried to pull his brain back into the solemnity of the moment. It often baffled him how his mind would veer off into uncharted territory when a moment became too stressful. But, God help him, the closer Ms. Ruthie came to Naomi's prone figure, the louder _Love Potion No. 9_ played in his head.

The aroma emanating from the fluid was so vile that Dean took a step backward from Ms. Ruthie as she approached. The moment he did so he felt like a coward and a phony. He was here to help Naomi and the only things he had managed to accomplish were watching as she killed an undead adversary and jumping back in horror at the sight of what could only be described as diarrhea in a jar. He just hoped that part of the remedy had nothing to do with Naomi putting whatever in the hell was running down the towel anywhere near her mouth.

"Come on boy. Grab her legs." Ruthie nodded toward the end of the couch as she spoke. "We need to hold her down."

Dean noticed that the _we_ seemed only to refer to him, because the older woman made no move to ensure that Naomi didn't break free and run helter-skelter through the streets of New Orleans. But Dean did as he was instructed. His father had instilled the need to please those in authority. There was something about Miss Ruthie that made him want to receive her approval. From the moment he had looked into the older woman's eyes as he carried Naomi in, he had felt a strange pull toward her—a need to accommodate. He didn't know if she was working any whacky mojo on him. He just knew that her presence made him stand a bit taller.

He grasped Naomi's ankles and was astonished at the temperature of her skin. From the moment he had met her, her flesh had alternated between opposing temperatures making him think that this was one of the lesser side effects of receiving a zombie bite. Sweat was falling from every pore and tiny rivulets of moisture were gathering and falling on her skin, but her legs were as cold as ice. The contradiction between sight and touch threw him for a loop, but he did not remove his hands from Naomi. Surprisingly enough, she gave no reaction at having his hands on her either.

Dean looked at her face and saw that it was contorted with pain. Her back arched occasionally as the feeling seized through her body. Sweat poured like rain down her cold skin and she made no move to slap at the tickling sensation of sweat moving slowly down her skin. She did not call out either. She did not whimper. If it were not for the contorted features of her face, Dean would have thought she was simply taking a nap.

"She isn't asleep _cher_." Ruthie gently spread a thick helping of the tar-like fluid on the wound on Naomi's leg. Dean didn't know if she had read his mind or if she was simply taking a stab at the obvious questions that a novice such as he would want to ask in a situation like this. "She is trying not to wake her brother. He's asleep."

Upon finding out that she had a sibling and that she was writhing silently to spare him from being jarred awake by the sound of her screams, Dean felt a kinship with her. He understood what it was like to sacrifice his self and his pain in order to keep his little brother happy. Dean had chosen to stay with his father and bear the burden of their family name in order to give Sam the chance to live some sort of normal life. He knew what it was like to want to tell the world how he felt, but in the end he was always forced to writhe in agony and stifle his screams.

Yes, at the moment he shared a one-sided kinship with the woman lying before him. They both knew what it was like to sacrifice for family.

"I thought that medicine was supposed to hurt." He nodded toward Ruthie's hand which was applying the second dose to Naomi's shoulder wound. He had expected a horrid spectacle milliseconds after Ruthie had dosed her. Instead, Naomi remained just as she was: in pain, in repose, and in control.

Ruthie turned and gave him a frown. It wasn't a look of admonishment but one of thoughtful confusion. He supposed that she thought he should have known how Naomi was going to react to the medicine. She probably thought that because he spent his life hunting and killing things like the zombies that had bitten Naomi that he was some sort of walking encyclopedia on the topic; "No. The medicine doesn't hurt. It's the body's reaction to the medicine that is going to cause her the greatest pain."

Dean hadn't realized he had relaxed his grip on her ankles. He had probably done so while watching the older woman slather on her old world concoction. It didn't really matter. He had let down his guard, and Naomi chose that moment to pounce. The flesh around the wounds was absorbing the medicine. As her body took in the folk remedy, puss and venom began to roll out and onto the carpet. The room smelled of burning flesh and the vile black liquid. Dean's nose took it all in right before Naomi's foot came crashing toward his face.

"_Non! Obtenir vos mains a cote de moi!"_ Naomi was shouting now—in vehement, accented French. Her voice was ragged and her eyes wide and searching. The infection was leaving her body and it was a messy, volatile experience.

Dean picked himself up off the floor and looked toward Ruthie; "Huh?"

"She said that she wanted you to take your hands off of her. I have to go and check on Oliver. In her state, Naomi is not thinking about him. He does not need to see his sister like this."

"So you're leaving me alone with her?"

Ruthie smiled. Naomi bound from the couch, and Dean readied his body for whatever attack the berserker-Frenchie-frog woman was going to throw his way.

"You can handle her Dean Winchester." Ruthie's voice was amused as she walked toward the room where the younger Laurent slept. The finality of her statement caused a cold chill to race up and back down Dean's spine.

She seemed to be okay and somewhat pleased with the fact that Naomi was once again mobile. Her reaction was so bizarre that Dean could feel questions and sarcastic parting shots form and sit on the edge of his tongue, but just like earlier in the evening, his tongue was as immobile and useless as his feet had been when watching Naomi.

Dean was not amused. Even though he could see her reason for leaving and checking on Naomi's brother, he did not see why she thought that he could "handle" zombie-Naomi well enough to stroll off into unseen rooms in the house.

He really shouldn't have let go of her ankles. Hell, he had no idea what to do. He wasn't supposed to hit girls, but he couldn't very well let one pummel him. Could he?

And so they stood. Dean was watching Naomi's loose body movement and waiting for her next move. He had to think of a way to get her calm and restrained before she pounced again.

"Hey." He gave her a little smile. Women always dug the Winchester charm. Maybe zombie women would as well. Sure, Naomi might be half-crazed with zombie spit, but surely she could see through the undead haze and notice his winning smile; "You have frustration. I have frustration. There are a few ways that we can un-frustrate each other that don't involve ripping me limb from limb."

It wasn't his best line, and he wasn't one hundred percent sure that he wanted to dance the horizontal mambo with a woman who was covered with puss and other unknown fluids. However, he didn't have many choices at the moment. Sometimes you just had to take one for the team.

Naomi punched him in the nose.

"Son of a BITCH!" Dean growled out the phrase as he held his nose in his cupped palms.

_So much for the Winchester charm._ Frankly, he wanted to know why she was so pissed. Or at least why she was so pissed at him. They had just met. Couldn't she have taken a few swings at the old broad? Damn, but he had enjoyed her company better when she was describing his sexual prowess in the car. And further more, he was going to have to talk to Bobby. If he was Naomi's sensei then he had certainly outdone himself. The woman hit like she had fists made of concrete.

Maybe he should try the rational approach. He needed to remain calm and objective, because he could feel his temper begin to rise. The urge to strike out in retaliation was becoming too strong, and Dean didn't want to hurt her. She was under the influence of forces greater than herself, but if she hit him one more damn time all bets were off.

Dean moved swiftly behind the couch and held up his hands in a defenseless gesture. He only hoped that the floral printed piece of furniture was enough of a barricade until he was able to get this situation under control; "It's me. Dean. You know, Impala Man? I'm friends with Bobby Singer."

Still looking vicious and crazed, Naomi tilted her head at him in the same manner that the drunken zombie had done earlier. Her feverish gaze stared, analyzed and obviously found him wanting. Because she leapt over the couch. Yes, leapt, like some damn animal on the Discovery channel and landed right on top of him. Dean hoped that she was getting closer to him so that she could take him up on his earlier offer. After all, being on a never ending road trip with your father certainly didn't give him a plethora of opportunities to get laid. Of course, he made time for one of his favorite activities, but it had been a long time—one month—since he had last had a woman on top of him.

Naomi was not in the mood to accommodate his licentious thoughts. Instead, she bit him as he struggled beneath her. Her teeth sank into his neck and Dean cried out in pain and surprise. Her teeth and tongue made contact with his skin, but fortunately she did not break the surface. She just nipped and growled in his ear. It was weird. It was not sexual, and Dean did not like it at all. He looked around frantically and knocked over a nearby hat stand in an effort to draw Ms. Ruthie out of her hiding place. No one rushed to his aid.

The friggin' cavalry never showed up for Dean Winchester.

_No, don't mind me. _Dean thought wryly as he tried to push Naomi off of him. She was tiny, but she had a grip like a damn bear. Her legs were wrapped around his waist like a pair of vice grips. He couldn't even buck her off. _No, don't mind me. I'm just going to die at the hands of a beautiful woman who is trying to eat me alive._

Stupid New Orleans.

Stupid zombies.

Stupid crazy women who wouldn't stop trying to take a chunk out of skin.

_Laissez le bons temps rouler? My ass._

He was warm. Those words repeated like a litany in Naomi's mind as she pressed her cold flesh into the body beneath hers. Her mouth and tongue sought the warmth of his blood as she bit harder into the skin. Heat emanated from the hard lines and contours of the body beneath hers. Just being on top of him made her feel as if she were basking in the sunlight. She had been cold for too long. She wanted to lie next to him, move his skin aside and situate herself inside his warmth; she wanted to devour him.

He just wouldn't let her.

First, he had tried talking. She could vaguely remember something about frustration and a toothy grin as he a tried to placate her into submission. She had barely heard what he had been yammering on about, because her main focus had been the rhythmic pulse of his carotid artery.

"_L'equlibre maintenant. Je ne vais pas vous nuire. Etre calme."_ She looked into his eyes as she whispered her platitudes. Of course, she couldn't really see him. Her gaze was narrowed and unfocused. He was nothing more to her than a series of warm blood vessels.

"Okay Morticia. I don't know what in the hell you are saying." Two strong hands came up to grasp her shoulders. Those same hands forcefully sought to remove her from his person. She didn't want to go.

"I'm cold." She whispered.

He snorted and quickly moved away from her. He was thankful that he had finally proven fast enough and strong enough to be able to escape her python like grasp; "So you can speak English. I was beginning to think I was stuck in some lame foreign film."

"I'm cold." She repeated.

"You are hurt. Zombies? Biting? Ringing any bells?"

Why did he have to talk so much? She held out her arms. She was going to get close to him. He was going to feed her, make her warm. He was going to somehow satiate the glacial blue fire that made her body feel as if it were walking through the coldest of tundra's. Her limbs felt heavy as she wrapped herself around him, and she was glad that he did not push her off this time. She held her body against his and smiled when she smelled the blood at the base of his neck.

She must have bitten him harder than she realized, because she could see the stark crimson rivulets as the formed like tiny raindrops against his throat. It was thick, warm, and hot. Without pause, she took her tongue and gently ran it along his skin to catch and absorb each crimson drop. She heard his sharp intake of breath and felt his body relax. She was glad that he was receiving some enjoyment. It was good to have a symbiotic relationship with prey. If he enjoyed what was happening to him, then perhaps he would not notice when she bit soundly into his neck. She would do more than just break the skin this time. She would rip at flesh, bone, and cartilage—tear away the outer lining and see the warm center hidden underneath. The only thing she had to do was force him into submission long to sink her teeth…

_"You will submit."_

Naomi gasped and pulled away from the warmth of his body. She felt him, her prey; pull back in surprise at the motion. She struggled to shake off the burden of that voice, but it would not go away. Cold seeped into her bones, muscles and soul as her brain played the voice of a man who had taken so much from her. Her body jerked once more in a vain attempted to cast off that voice—his voice—which had now been relegated to nightmares and the dark corners of her mind. Her mind began to formulate and play a scene from her past that she never wanted to repeat again. Naomi was surprised when her body began to grow even colder.

_"I am not yours to control!" Naomi clinched her fists as she looked into the brutal blue eyes that stared down at her with dispassionate tolerance. She wanted to use her fists, legs, head. She wanted to use any body part she could to battle off and run away from the man standing in front of her._

_She was nude. The air in the hall taunted her body. She tried to imagine that she was wrapped in wool or bathing in the warmth of the New Orleans Summer sun, but her imagination provided no succor from the chill that invaded her every time she was in his presence._

_Maison de Sang. House of Blood. That was the name given to her demon husband's ostentatious abode. The walls in the palatial mansion were painted a deep crimson and the floors were just a tad bit lighter. The walls looked as if they bled, but the house remained cold. Empty. As if the inhabitants restrained it from capturing the warmth that it's name should provide. _

_After all wasn't blood meant to be hot and life sustaining?_

_ Stephen jerked her left hand up. The movement was swift and violent. Once her hand was in front of him, he took the third finger on that hand—the finger which held the shackle of her matrimony and bent it back until she heard the bone snap. Pain. It was fresh and vivid and it poured through her body. She did not cry out. She knew that her pain would only bring him pleasure. Instead, Naomi looked at him and forced her eyebrow to rise in challenge. Her entire body vibrated with the pulse of pain emanating from her finger, but she did not relent. She had been his puppet for too long. _

_ "Stupid bitch." He was angry. Her finger was pulsating so loudly with agony that she barely felt his hand as it bashed against the side of her face. Spit ran down the sides of his mouth in thick, frothy lines making him look like a mad dog. "You will do as I say or I will kill you and everyone you love. You are my wife. That means you are my chattel. And as my property, you will do as I wish. So, quit bitching or your punishment will be much worse than what I have asked you to do."_

_ His punishments were brutal. Stephen was a cold and indifferent jailor who knew her every weakness, because she had been naïve enough to tell him. He had a way of tearing her apart from the inside out, because he knew how to use what she feared the most against her. But she was tired of being a demon's pawn and for the moment, these small bursts of defiance were the only thing she had to throw back into the face of a man that she had once loved more than her own life. She just wanted to go home. She wanted to be with her family. She wanted to sleep in her own bed and close her eyes without the ever present gnawing fear that something or someone was going to leap from the shadows and harm her. She wanted to be herself again._

_ When she answered, her heart was hammering like the wings of a hummingbird. And still, her hand thrummed with the blood rushing in her body. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thankfully, her voice was in control and her eyes did not waiver as she met his gaze. With each word, she could feel the stinging pull of the skin on the flesh that he had brutally slapped just seconds before; "Go to hell you worthless piece of demon trash. You are nothing but a figment of a man. A ghost who steals the body of others. You may hit me, punish me, even kill me but you will not get the pleasure of doing so with your own hands. The poor bastard you are wearing will have that satisfaction. I only hope that if and when the time comes that you can feel his joy at taking that away from you."_

_ He picked her up by her chin. His grip was brutal and unforgiving. She could almost feel the blood rushing to the areas that he touched; there would be bruises later. Each mark would serve as a small reminder that he still had the power to control her. He still had the power to leave his mark on her skin. He loved to put on a show—to show her and all present that he was the master of his domain. She could hear the laughing voices of those in the background. Some taunted him saying that no human whore should have the right to talk to him that way. Some were guffawing and shouting that she must enjoy the torture he forced upon her. She could hear all the demons as they shouted suggestions while her naked toes dangled and brushed the cool marble tiles._

_ Stephen grinned. If she hadn't known what lay beneath his smile, she might have thought that the roguish tilt of his lips was a handsome affectation meant to flatter her. She might have thought that the glint in his eyes was affection shining through. Naomi knew better. She knew that all these signs were nothing more than the demon planning and plotting its next method of torture._

_ "Chambray." Stephen called the other demon's name in a voice barely above a whisper._

_ Naomi knew she would come. Sophie Chambray always came when her master called. Now was no different. She slinked toward the front of the room to more chortles and lurid suggestions from the guests. Her long red gown floated around her ankles allowing Naomi to hear the soft staccato clicks of her Dolce and Gabbano heels. When she sidled up to Stephen, she threw her long blond hair over her shoulder in an exaggerated show of femininity and gave Naomi's husband a lavish kiss on the cheek._

_ "You called?"_

_ Naomi could feel her eyes narrow. She wanted to hurt the demon possessed form. She wanted to kill everyone in the room, so she wouldn't have to listen to their taunts and bawdy jokes. She wanted to run screaming into the streets and let everyone know that demons inhabited their city. She wanted to run out and grab every man, woman, and child and shout at each about the things she knew. She wanted to let all of Paris know that monsters were roaming their streets and they needed to barricade themselves inside the warmth and safety of their homes._

_ But she couldn't tell the humans from the demons anymore._

_ "Chain her to the wall."_

_ At those words, her body tensed. She tried to make her muscles relax, but her body defied her. She knew what the chain meant. For the past five years, Stephen had kept her in little else. He had left her bound and watched as unspeakable acts were forced upon her person. She hated the iron objects that would soon leave her securely tethered to the house she loathed. She hated the way the candlelight in the room caught the iron. She hated the way every demon in the room sat up a little taller upon hearing his order. _

_She would not cry. Tears gathered and burned in the back of her eyes. God, she wished she could fight back. She wished she had the power and the energy to defeat her foes with a withering look, but she was not a superhero._

_ Sometimes, when she was chained and cold, she felt like she was nothing at all. _

_Naomi struggled with keeping herself calm and centered as Chambray took her arm. The other woman intentionally dug her manicured fingers deeply into Naomi's skin._

_ "Tutt-tutt." Her exaggerated French accent caused more pain to Naomi than her Krueger nails. "It would seem that the master's toy has been naughty once again."_

_ Naomi turned toward her husband's flunky and gave the woman a self assured smile. No one in the room needed to know that she was screaming inside. No one needed to know that with each small rebellion she imposed on her husband she feared that he was finally going to kill her. Let them all think that she was mad or that she enjoyed their treatment. _

_She was not going to be here forever. Naomi had an ally in the form of a servant girl who was working diligently on an elaborate plan of escape. She only hoped that Monique Gerard was clever enough to avoid the black-eyed stare of the house's inhabitants long enough to bring fruition to the plan that the two women had been working on for the past two months._

_ With her best Pepe LePeu accent, Naomi countered with; "Oui. And it would seem that my husband's bitch has decided to carry out his punishments because he does not have the balls to do it 'imself."_

_ Chambray beautiful face transformed with anger, causing her ice blue eyes to turn a crystalline color that reminded Naomi of frost gathering on a window shield. However, the blond never lashed out at her. She was snide and uncomplimentary, but other than the occasional nail digging she never truly hurt Naomi. Perhaps she got her satisfaction from seeing others inflict pain on the woman that she saw as her competition?_

_Chambray threw her to the ground. Naomi fell onto the cold stone floor with her legs spread in an indecent manner. Given her naked state, she was well aware that everyone in the room now had a courtside view to her nether regions and God only knew what else. Chambray smiled coldly as she grabbed each of Naomi's wrists in her hand and shackled her to the wall._

_ "Bitch I may be," Chambray's breath was glacial and held the scent of sulfur, "But I am not the one chained naked to the wall. Instead, I will be beside your husband in your bed tonight."_

_ Naomi's parting shot came from her heart and made her smile—just a little—when it made the demon woman stop in her tracks: "I would rather be chained to the wall facing my punishment than one figment lying next to the other. I am a real woman Chambray. You are nothing but smoke and mirrors. Why do you think he married me? Smoke and mirrors are good for those who want an illusion, but at the end of the day, a man wants flesh and blood next to him."_

_ Stephen who must have sensed an impending cat fight walked over to her shackled form and smiled at her as if she were a petulant child; "Take the boy back to his cell."_

_ He kept his eyes on Naomi as he spoke, but his servants moved efficiently to do his bidding._

_ She wanted to look at Monique. The French woman had been Naomi's only contact with an actual human for all her years in France. Monique would make sure that the boy who appeared to be no older than twelve or thirteen was brought back to his family. The knot of dread that had gathered in Naomi's stomach loosened a bit when she realized that he would be set free. Not long from now he would be at home with his family eating bread and cheese and this entire incident would be nothing but a distant and disturbing dream. _

_Naomi and the boy were to have been that night's entertainment. The sick and debauched masses had the audacity to think that she would deflower and assault the young man while they watched. In the beginning, she had found their modes of entertainment amusing even intriguing. She had never known the heights of pleasure that she could be brought to, but after the pleasure had come the pain. Rape. Torture. Beatings. There was nothing fascinating about their need to harm the innocent. Yes, she would gladly take this punishment if she it meant that her soul would be clean of this sin._

_ There were so many others that she had yet to repent for._

_ She watched as the boy walked out of the room just as he had entered. His head was bowed. His hands and feet were shackled and his entire body was shaking. Naomi sent up a prayer and hoped that God would still listen to someone such as her. She prayed that the young man would make it out of her husband's home and go on to live a life of laughter and freedom._

_ "Why must you misbehave?" Stephen ran his hand down the side of her cheek. She hadn't always misbehaved. There had been a time when she would have smiled wantonly at him or pouted and sweetly demanded for the next sinful delight to be brought forward. He told her before every punishment that he missed the way things used to be. He missed having her at his side. _

_ She would never be that woman again. She would not vie for the love of a man who wanted her soul to be as tarnished as his own._

_ Naomi spit in his face with her hands bound and her feet clasped tightly together at the ankles to ensure no passing fiend saw what was not his. The small dab of liquid was all that she could muster; "You are nothing. I will get out of here dear husband. When I do, the torture you have put me through will be nothing compared to what I do to you. I will watch you burn in fire hotter than the one's you crawled out of."_

_ He chuckled in true amusement; "We will see."_

_ Chambray who could never go too long without seeking some sort of attention from someone with a penis sauntered over and put her arms around Stephen's waist. She kept her eyes on Naomi as she slipped her hand into the darkness of his button up shirt. Stephen smiled at Chambray before giving her a long and satisfying kiss. The room filled with goading and sexual innuendo. Naomi was amused with the picture they made. _

_The opulence of the room and the sophisticated cut of their clothing made them look like the cover of a romance novel. _The Demon's Kiss._ A smirk marred her delicate features as she thought of her nonexistent novel's tagline: If it looks too good to be true, it usually is._

_ When the two separated, Stephen spoke. He was a bit breathless by his recent amorous encounter, but he spoke with authority and jocularity that made Naomi want to scream. As soon as he finished speaking, her punishment would begin. She could not run or hide. She would simply have to endure._

_ "My friend and I are going to retire for the evening." He punctuated his statement by giving the crowd a roguish smile and paused for their obligatory roar of immoral encouragement. "I bid you all good night and ask that you partake of what I have laid out for you. I only ask that you leave her just the way you found her. Alive."_

_ He and Chambray turned to leave. Naomi watched their well coiffed figures disappear behind the garish wood of an overly ornate gilt door. She then turned her eyes back to the demons that remained in the room. They were all smiling. Some were even rubbing their hands in ham-fisted anticipation. She could hear the clock strike eleven in the hallway. She could hear a piano playing in the great hall, and she could hear the triumphant laughter of her husband as she was attacked and abused by twelve demons._

_ She kept her eyes closed most of the time._

_ And she didn't make a sound._

Dean was jarred from the depths of a very interesting dream involving Carmen Electra and a feather duster by the sound of rattling chains and fluent cursing. Normally, he would find such sounds odd, but he was able to remember the previous evening with high definition clarity. He turned to look at the origin of those expletives.

Naomi looked better this morning. She had passed out in his arms the night before.He had been more than disappointed with the change in her demeanor given that she had been licking his neck in the more intriguing fashion moments before she dropped like a rock. The way she had slumped forward in his arms had caused him to freak out, so he had left her momentarily to seek the advice of Ms. Ruthie.

The woman had looked tired but he had been relieved to discover that Naomi was sleeping soundly. She had apologized to Dean for leaving him so abruptly. She had explained that it had been too painful to watch the child she helped raise writhe in pain. Upon hearing her explanation and seeing the tears waiting to fall from her soft, sad eyes, Dean had been more inclined to forgive her for her abrupt departure. He had been on far too many jobs where his father had been harmed. He knew the stone cold terror that watching someone you care for wrestle with agony could cause.

Before dismissing him, Ms. Ruthie had told him to take Naomi to her room. She had also said that she had placed a cot for him in that same room earlier in the evening. Dean had not been happy with the fact that he would have to spend the night with a woman who had alternated between assaulting and licking him. He was also a bit curious as to what Ms. Ruthie's intentions were if she thought it was appropriate to put a strange young man in the same room with a young woman that she treasured so much.

He had looked around the house for something to restrain his on-again off -again attacker and had been inordinately pleased when he had looked at the wall next to the window in her room. After removing the frilly lace curtain from the screws attached to the restraints, he had been a bit surprised to see a pair of shackles securely screwed into the wall. He was even more surprised to discover that the shackles had been reinforced so that if a person were chained then he or she would have no way to escape. Thinking of his safety, Dean had secured Naomi to the wall. He certainly didn't want to wake up and find her standing over him with a knife or lying on top of him trying to bite his neck. Well, the second scenario didn't ring as horrible as the first, but either way, if she was going to be on top of him he would prefer that she not be coated with foul smelling liquid and seeping zombie venom.

After all, he had standards.

He had noticed that when she was putting her wrists in the shackles that her skin had been flushed, but it was increasing temperature. She no longer felt like a human popsicle and Dean considered that to be a huge improvement over her previous condition. So, to see her awake and extremely articulate after the night she had, Dean figured that Naomi Laurent was going to be all right.

Her brown eyes clashed with his hazel ones from across the room. Last night she had looked petite and lonely. Even when fighting creatures that most people didn't believe in, there had been something vulnerable about her. Something that brought his protective instincts to the surface. Again, her demeanor had seemingly changed over night. The look she was giving him was full of so much anger that Dean actually flinched. Her head was low and the bottom part of her face was hidden by the mass of curls that decorated her skull, but her eyes seared into his.

"Take these damn things off of me. Now." Her voice wasn't slurred. It was strong, assured, and…

Dean who had gotten up to release her stopped when he saw Naomi's bottom lip quiver. His father had always told him that everyone had a tell. Even the best card sharks would give away their secrets if you looked close enough. Naomi was showing him hers. Her lip was quivering and if he looked closely at her hands they were shaking. She was scared.

Hell, they were her shackles.

He walked over to the night stand where he had put the key and moved slowly toward her. Her shoulders were shaking now. His heart tightened as he watched her struggle and ultimately fail to get her body under control. He had been wrong. It wasn't fear. The look in her eyes and the tension in her body suggested something far more visceral than fear.

He momentarily waylaid his decision to unlock the chains and stooped down next to her; "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Then why did you chain me?"

Tears gathered in her eyes. Dean was torn between shock and terror. The woman could fight off a zombie attack with the fervor of a religious zealot but turned on the water works when she found herself chained inside of her own home. (Again, with _her_ shackles.) Dean didn't know how to deal with tears. He had been forced to quell his own so many times that dealing with the pain of others often left him at a loss. But there was something about the way she looked at him.

The connection he had felt with her the night before when she had been fighting off supernatural elements reared its head and sent a jolt of emotion to Dean's heart. The pain he saw on her face was like a wild flame licking at his skin. He wanted to tame it, control it, and extinguish it. He didn't want her to be scared of him. So, going against his very nature, Dean Winchester sought to reach out to someone, because she could possibly understand how he felt inside.

Cautiously, Dean put his hand on her cheek. She flinched at his touch and that only made him ache a bit more, but he did not remove his hand. He wanted her to know that she could trust him. He wanted her to know that his hands were there to help not harm; "I'm not going to hurt you. I put you here, because I didn't want you to attack me again."

It was her turn to look a bit perplexed; "I attacked you?"

He chuckled; "That's putting it mildly. First you kicked me in the face. Then you punched me in the nose. Finally, you jumped on top of me and tried to tear the skin from my shoulder."

Her eyes widened at his brief recitation; "Are you okay?"

His hand was still on her face so he threw caution to the wind and gently rubbed his thumb against her cheek. Her skin was soft, smooth…pure. He loved touching women. They were always so supple. He hadn't had much softness in his life.

That had all burned up in a fire.

He was also humbled by the look of concern on her face for him. She was still shaking, but she was able to quell her fear long enough to check his person and ensure that she had done no lasting damage.

Her eyes widened a bit as she continued to search his face; "Do you feel any different? Did the virus spread to you?"

He could feel his lips quirk in amusement; "I'm fine. No need to bring the black goo out. Nothing but my pride is hurt. How would it look if anyone ever found out that a girl kicked the crap out me?"

She didn't reply. Instead, she just looked at him. The air was pregnant and waiting for either of them to make a move, but neither did. The birds continued to chirp outside and he could hear the distant clash and bang of pots and pans coming from the kitchen. To expunge the awkward silence that permeated the air, Dean reluctantly removed his hand from her face and released her from the shackles.

There was a part of him—the part that watched Oprah and secretly enjoyed flavored coffees—that had wanted to stay with her down on the floor. Just staring. Just being. Every now and again, Dean felt as if he needed human contact. Not the late night encounters that formed in smoky bars or dingy alleys. But a real human connection. Someone who he could be himself with and not have to worry about ridicule or reprimands. Someone that would listen to him bitch about his family. Yes, every now and again, Dean Winchester needed a friend. And the brief contact of his hand on her cheek had brought up those latent needs with a vengeance.

She got up rubbing her wrists and Dean felt like the worst kind of jackass when he noticed that they were red. He was about to apologize, but she spoke first. Again, her gaze locked with his; "I'm sorry I hit you last night, but if you every chain me again, I promise you I will get free and make it my life's mission to kick your ass from here to kingdom come."

Yes, some women were soft. And some women were steel wrapped in silk.

He nodded in concession to her fiercely given threat. Dean felt the need to put his cards on the table as well. "I will not chain you to a wall if you promise to never interfere with a fight again. I don't need you putting my car into drive every time you think things are getting out of hand. I can handle myself Naomi. It's what I do. If we are going to work together, then we work as a team. And just so we are both clear, if you ever put my car in harm's way again, I will put the hurt on you so bad that a night in those chains will look like a trip to Club Med."

"Deal." Her eyes had turned to cold amber, and she held out her hand. Again, he was forced to stare down at the irritated skin.

Dean put his hand in hers and gave it a gentle shake. He had to resist the urge to run his finger across the red welt in silent apology; "Deal."

She smiled at him; it was the soft and feminine look of a woman who was thoroughly satisfied with an arrangement. Dean was able to momentarily forget about the debacle of the previous night and the fact that he had unwittingly hurt her by marring her flesh.

Her smile faded when she looked around his shoulder at a digital alarm clock resting on her vanity. The time piece was situated a top a frilly lace doily that had turned yellow at the edges with age and use. That made Dean smile. She was a real girly-girl. He had noticed it the night before, but couldn't help but revel in it today. Her room was full of flowers and faded pinks and blues. There were Jane Austen novels on the shelves and teddy bears in the floor. During his search for a proper weapon in case she were to try to nip at him during the night, he had also discovered that behind the bookshelf she had a sawed of shot gun and two large machetes. He had not been surprised either when he had accidently knocked over a stuffed rabbit to have the damn thing's head come off to reveal a pistol.

She was definitely steel wrapped in silk.

"The bathroom is two doors down on your right. You can get a shower and clean up. We will grab some breakfast and then I will take you to our first destination." She was all business now. Even her posture had changed. Naomi no longer stood relaxed. Her shoulders were back and she had a certain "John Winchester" look about her.

_Dad would get a real kick out of her._ Dean squashed that thought as abruptly as it had appeared, because Naomi would never meet his father. In fact, Dean would never see Naomi after he left New Orleans. It was easier for him if he had no entanglements. Life on the road was not very lucrative for lasting relationships.

Dean raised an eyebrow and chose to focus on the job at hand instead of his increasingly melancholy thoughts; "And that would be?"

"You just drive the Impala. I'll navigate."

"I am Impala Man."

She smiled again. It was like a burst of sunshine settled on her face; "Hurry up Winchester. We have a long day ahead of us."

He saluted her and gave her a grin.

She was almost in the hallway when a question struck him and he called her back into the room.

"Whatcha need?" Her head was halfway in the door and her thick curly hair fell in a brunette cascade.

He had the sudden urge to find a pencil and draw her. Which was odd, because Dean couldn't draw for shit. But he wanted to preserve her image, so that maybe, when he felt like he needed a friend and there was no one around, he could pull out that likeness and remember that he had once had several friendly conversations with someone who only knew him as Dean and not John Winchester's son or Sam Winchester's brother.

"Why are the shackles in your room? I don't really think they go with your décor and you don't seem like the kind of girl who is into that kind of kink." He cleared his throat and waited for her reply.

She nodded toward the shackles and their stagnate position on her wall; "The shackles are a reminder."

Her face had lost its jovial demeanor. Dean didn't want to push the issue too far, but he wasn't able to forget the way she had looked, how her body had quivered with pain, when she had been in the shackles.

"A reminder of what?" He kept his voice gentle and conversational in case she found his prodding offensive.

Instead, she gave him a triumphant smile. It was the kind of smile that made him think of conquering warriors who stood over their victims with head thrown back. "They remind me that I belong to no one." With that said, she hit the door with her open palm as if to call the conversation to order; "Now, get ready Winchester. We have a big day, and I think I smell Ruthie's famous French toast."

His stomach growled in response and he caught her grin. She had heard it as well.

"Let me rinse the funk off and I will be at your table with bells on."

He was able to momentarily push aside Naomi's earlier fear and their mysterious trip later in the day at the mention of French toast.

He had never seen anything like it. Dean propped himself up on the doorjamb at the entrance to the kitchen and smiled. The entire room smelled like cinnamon and coffee. The aroma had hit him in the bathroom and caused him to rush through his morning ablutions in an effort to get to the chow hall before all the food was gone. He hadn't expected the joyful image that would greet him.

_Great Balls of Fire_ blasted through an iPod that sat underneath a window. The window was open and greeted the warm breeze with welcome arms as the smells from the outside came to mingle and converge with the scents of the kitchen. Jerry Lee Lewis' strong voice pelted every note as if he were in competition with the bird that tweeted incessantly in the large magnolia tree in yard. And at the center of it all was Naomi Laurent. She had pulled her hair back into what looked like a bird's habitat and was currently bumping her hip against Ms. Ruthie's as they sang along with the song.

The dynamic duo bobbed their heads and wiggled their hips in time with the music and turned to face each other only when Jerry Lee's voice shouted "Goodness Gracious Great Balls of Fire." When this would happen, a giggle from a small boy sitting at the edge of the table would join the cacophony and float out of the window and into the wind. Dean watched with fond remembrance as the child colored his picture of Clifford the Big Red Dog and thought about the endless nights he had spent coloring with Sammy.

He was a small child with a wide, happy face and big brown eyes that took in the scene in front of him with joyous abandon. As he smiled at the two women, Dean found himself replacing the smaller boy's features with his brother's. In fact, just looking at the child caused his heart to burn as memories surfaced and taunted him. Hell, the kid even had a head full of unruly brown hair like his younger brother. Still staring at Naomi's sibling, he allowed himself to wonder and wish what would have happened if Sam Winchester had gotten up one morning to find people dancing and singing while his breakfast was being made.

There sure hadn't been any breakfasts like this at the Winchester…home? Could he really call a string of motels and fast food restaurants home? If anything, the seats of the Impala were more home to him than any building he had ever inhabited, but still, it would have been nice to wake up and find people who cared for him and his brother dancing around a kitchen. Dean felt his smile widen a bit when the boy clapped his hands and laughed with sheer delight as Naomi deftly flipped a piece of French toast in the air to only have it land on her foot.

_Ollie needs ice cream too. _She had said those words to him the night before when she had been fighting off the venom. Then, he had thought that she was delusion and simply stringing together words. But, she had been talking about her younger brother. There was that damn ache again. It latched itself onto his heart and squeezed the organ gently. She had a little brother whose need for ice cream outweighed her need to get home and receive treatment.

Dean's gaze returned to Naomi. He had expected to find her working on another piece of toast or making faces at her brother in the hopes of teasing a laugh from him. Instead, for the second time that morning, their eyes clashed.

_I found my thrill_

_On Blueberry Hill_

_On Blueberry Hill_

_When I found you…_

Fats Domino's voice replaced Jerry Lee Lewis as the iPod switched to the next song on its play list. Still smiling, Naomi came from behind the counter and walked toward him. Her hips were swaying gently to the beat of the song. She was singing. She wasn't half bad. Her voice was deep and smoky. It made him think of hot summer nights and stolen moments in the dark. Her singing blended seamlessly with Domino's providing those in the kitchen with a sensual duet.

He raised an eyebrow when she held out her hand to him.

"Come on Winchester. I can't have you standing in the corner looking like a kicked puppy. Dance with me?"  
He was more surprised at her question than when she had soundly kicked him in the nose the night before. For the life of him, he couldn't think of a polite way to tell her no. Dancing wasn't his thing. He could shoot a ghost at twenty paces and burn the bones of a dead man without flinching, but dancing with her in a setting such as this scared the living hell out of him.

But as usual, his body defied his mind's demand and he found himself accepting her offer without a note of dissent. On its own accord, his hand moved into hers. She gave it a gentle squeeze as if to assure him that she understood his mental turmoil, and again, against his better judgment he squeezed hers back.

Ms. Ruthie grinned as she sprinkled confectioner's sugar on the toast she was piling onto a plate. Oliver was moving his head along with the music and concentrating on a particularly difficult section of his Clifford picture. And Dean Winchester was dancing to oldies with the oddest woman he had ever met.

And damn it all to hell and back if he didn't feel included in their domestic bliss. Even if it was only for a moment.

Naomi continued to sing as they danced. He had to fight the urge to close his eyes and drink in the moment. No demons were bursting through the door. No shot gun had to be loaded with rock salt, and there was no father to worry about. He was just dancing. Hell, he felt almost normal.

But as with all good things, the music and the moment had to come to an end. Ms. Ruthie clicked off the music player halfway through the opening rifts of _My Boyfriend's Back._ Naomi extricated herself from his embrace and he followed her to the table. Even Oliver followed the silent command and put his coloring books and crayons on the floor next to his chair. Everyone took a seat at the oval table that monopolized a large corner of the cozy kitchen.

He made himself forget about dancing and family. There was food to be eaten and he had a long day ahead of him. Besides, perhaps the food would stop him from having such un-manly thoughts. Dean prepared himself for his meal by loading his plate with five pieces of toast and several of the succulent sausage links that had been placed right in front of him. He put thick wedges of butter in between each piece of bread before adding a hefty portion of the yellow substance to the top piece. Finally, he poured copious amounts of warm syrup onto his plate. He sank his fork into his meal and anticipated the delight it would bring to his taste buds. However, when he looked around the table with the fork poised in front of his lips, he noticed that no one else was eating. In fact, they were all looking at him with varying expressions. Ms. Ruthie gave him a look that made him want to hang his head in shame. Little Oliver's mouth had formed into a distressed O as if Dean was somehow breaking a rule by eating what had been placed in front of him. Naomi was glancing at him with humor dancing in his eyes and a smile tugging at her lips.

"What?"

Ms. Ruthie answered his question; "We do not eat in this house until we have given thanks."

It took great effort for him to put his utensil back onto the plate. Damn it, he was hungry. But the look he was getting from Ms. Ruthie was enough to quell his appetite. Soon, he found himself connected to the three people at the table as they bowed their heads for prayer. He mimicked their actions but gave no thanks. There was no doubt in his mind that the food would be delicious and the company entertaining, but he did not feel the need to thank a God who allowed creatures like he was hunting to exist in the same realm with small children and women who thought they could take on the world with the sheer force of their will.

She wanted to hug him. Naomi took a bite of breakfast and studied the man sitting across from her. There was something about him that made her want to comfort him. She wanted to reach out and soothe his furrowed brow or at least coax the relaxed expression he had worn while they had been dancing in her kitchen. She had known the moment he had entered the room while she and Ms. Ruthie had been preparing breakfast. She had seen him smile while watching Oliver, and she had also seen the look of longing on his face. Bobby Singer had told her about the life that the Winchester boys had been forced to lead after they had lost their mother.

She couldn't imagine the life that two small boys had led as they traveled from motel to motel searching for the thing that killed their mother. She certainly couldn't imagine hauling Oliver around as she fought. It would have been unfair to him if she were to take him away from the only home he had known in order to feed her own need for vengeance. But she could also understand and appreciate John Winchester's need to seek out the demon that killed his wife. If Ms. Ruthie and Oliver weren't in her life, Naomi would have done the same thing after escaping from Stephen's house of horrors. She would have trained, hunted, and fought until her knuckles were bloody. She would have left all humanity behind to finally see the look on Stephen's face when she plunged a knife in his belly.

Yes, she could see the world through John Winchester's blood crazed eyes, but that didn't stop her from pitying the two boys he took along for the ride. Naomi grinned when she looked across the table to see Dean talking animatedly to Oliver. French toast formed a softball sized deterrent in his right cheek as he told her brother some far fetched story that made Oliver toss his head back and laugh. As her little brother roared with amusement, Dean reached for a glass of milk, took a long gulp, and wiped the excess milk off with the back of his hand. The action was so child like that Naomi could almost see the little boy he had been. She could see him sitting next to some faceless younger Winchester telling tall tales in an effort to make his younger brother laugh. She wondered if John Winchester had ever taken time out of his busy demon killing schedule to share a moment of levity with his sons.

Taking another bite, Naomi savored the taste of the food and the look on Dean's face when she had asked him to dance. Of course, he had wanted to say no. She had seen it in the set of his jaw and the way his shoulders had tensed. The damn man had looked like he was getting ready for a brawl instead of being asked to dance with her. She had made the gesture in an effort to make him feel as if he belonged there—with her family—if only for the space of time that this job took. She had wanted to give him a memory of laughter, music, and being held close as the world continue to spin outside.

"Can I go over and play with Amos this afternoon?" Oliver jarred her out of her thoughts when he asked her the question. He was looking at her with hopeful eyes and confectioner's sugar smeared all over the bridge of his nose.

Naomi frowned at the mere mention of the other child's name. She didn't like Amos Monroe. He lived in the house across the street and the boy was nothing but trouble. He terrorized the whole neighborhood with his antics. He had been suspended from school for stopping up the toilets because he had been trying to desperately get rid of a grade that his parent's would have disapproved of. He had been chastised numerous times at church for belching during the sermon or taking out the choir's music and replacing it with _Funky Cold_ _Medina._ Two weeks ago Naomi caught the little pervert balancing his skinny legs on a trashcan outside her bathroom window in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her in the buff. When she had hauled him in the house to box his ears, he had smiled at her and said "I have to learn what a woman looks like sometimes and they don't tell you nothing about that on the Disney channel." Thankfully, she had been able to hold her laughter until Amos had gone back home.

"I don't know. You had a fever last night." She couldn't tell Oliver that she thought his taste in friends was horrible. It would only incite her brother's rebellious nature and cause him to seek out the little boy more.

Oliver grimaced and let his fork drop to the plate with an irritable _clack._ "You never let me do anything." He twisted his cute face into what he thought was a look of adult derision before inaccurately mimicking Naomi's voice; "_You can't go outside Ollie; you might catch a cold. You can't go with me tonight Ollie; you might get hurt. You can't go to the bathroom without me Ollie; who would wipe your backside? _All I want to do is go play!"

Her need to comfort the oldest Winchester brother dissolved when he began to cough loudly into a napkin. Of course, he wasn't really coughing but trying to smother his own raucous laughter. She wanted to throw something at the man to get him to shut the hell up, but that action would most likely exacerbate her current situation. Instead, she looked at her brother and tried to put a stern look on her face.

"First of all, don't you ever use that tone of voice with me young man. I am trying to do what is best for you…"

"I don't want to spend the rest of my life inside!" Oliver's voice rose as he no doubt reached the pinnacle of annoyance.

Naomi remembered feeling the same way when she was his age, but at nine she hadn't known what was lurking in the dark corners. She hadn't known that the things that went "bump" in the night wanted nothing more than to suck the very marrow from her bones. Again, she thought of John Winchester and the way he had taken away his sons' childhood in order to hunt the things in the dark. She had fought too long and too hard to give Oliver a sense of normalcy to let it all go now. Even if Madame Renauld was out for blood.

"I will let you go this time." Oliver let out a whoop of excitement and Naomi held up her hand. She hated being the parent. She would have given anything if she could have been the cool older sister instead of a pitiful replacement for a mother and father who would have been doing so much better than she. "I don't want you to leave the front yard. Do you understand me? You will stay where Ms. Ruthie can see you at all times. If she calls me and says you have run off, there will be consequences."

"Yes ma'am." Oliver's face was stretched to the limit with the smile he was wearing and he pushed back his chair in exuberance to run around the table to throw his arms around Naomi's neck. "I will stay where Ms. Ruthie can see me." He confirmed her orders and placed a sloppy kiss on her cheek. "I won't run off with Amos, even if he tells me that the Donner triplets are outside washing the car."

"Smart ass." She chuckled and returned her brother's kiss before he went scampering off to make ready for his day with Amos.

Ms. Ruthie let out a tut of disapproval; "Shouldn't be talking like that in front of the boy Naomi Renee. Unseemly and unladylike. And you don't have all day to be sitting at this table; you need to take the hunter where he needs to be."

Naomi knew when she was being chastised, and as always, Ms. Ruthie was right. She didn't have time to ruminate over the life of Dean Winchester or the life she wanted for Ollie. She had a job to do and sitting at the table wasn't getting it done.

She turned to Ms. Ruthie and gave her an apologetic smile; "Yes ma'am." She stood as well pushing her chair back with much more grace and dignity than her brother. She looked at Dean who had been taking in the familial interaction with his mouth quirked in amusement; "Are you ready to go?"

He nodded toward his plate; "Plate is empty. Let's hit the road."

Ruthie watched as Naomi kissed her brother good bye and Dean Winchester tussled the boy's hair. Her stomach lurched and she fought and subsequently controlled the need to wretch in the sink. She needed them to leave. She needed Oliver to go with the other child from across the street. Something bad was coming. Soon. She could feel it in her bones and see it in the wind. And she wouldn't be able to tell what it was until she was alone. Her stomach roiled in defiance and again, Ruthie quelled the urge to vomit, to let the evil that was approaching roll like a canker inside her. She would not let it control her. She closed her eyes and thought of home. She thought of her mother baking bread and singing softly in the kitchen. She thought of the sun on her skin as she had laid out in the back yard and read ancient texts. She had to make the dread in her stomach dissipate. She needed to be completely and utterly alone. She needed to concentrate without having to worry with the flurry of emotions that oozed off of other people. Her head was still ringing with the frustration that had bounced off of Oliver when he thought he was going to be denied a day in the sun.

She needed to get hold of her breath and unwind.

The door shut once signaling the exit of Naomi and Dean as they made their way to the boy's car. Seconds later, she heard Oliver's shout that he was going to go get Amos and that they were going to stay in the front yard. She waved the child on without even looking at him. This feeling had been on her for days. Dragging her down and making her feel like she had been pressed between a rock and a hard place with shadows closing in and no method of escape. Now that she was alone, she could smell the tangy scent of oranges and the dead. With the house quiet, she could hear the humming of the old songs as they ricocheted in the recess of her mind and mixed fluidly with the bright timbre of haunting laughter.

A shiver as cold as death, ran up her spine.

She knew who it was. She knew that laughter. She knew her smell. She knew that she would never stop until Naomi was dead. She just didn't know what the bitch was up to. Clara Renauld always had a trick up her sleeve.

Reaching underneath the counter, Ruthie sighed with a mixture of relief and reprieve when she wrapped her hand around the neck of a bottle she only got out when the stress of the world bore down on her shoulders and made her feel heavier than a preacher after Sunday dinner. Ruthie wasn't feeling particularly holy today. She opened up the bottle of moonshine and took a long pull before coughing violently over the sink. The liquid cut like glass but thankfully moved with serpentine agility to easy the cold in her hands.

Last time her hands were this cold, she had come home to find Joseph Laurent trying his best to kill Oliver. She would never forget the brutal image of Joe's large hands as they wrapped around the fragile neck of the son that he had once doted upon. She could still see his eyes as they turned pitch black and hear his cruel bark of laughter as it released into the house. Ruthie could remember that and the fact that her hands had been icy cold. Almost as if she could have reached out and brushed the frost from the evil that tainted the Laurent family. Her mother had always told her that cold hands meant that evil was in reach. Ruthie believed it.

She took another swig from the bottle and stared out into the yard. Oliver and Amos were huddled underneath a tree looking at a magazine. She smirked. She knew good and damn well that Amos Monroe had been pilfering in his father's nudie magazines again. That damn child was nothing but trouble. She ought to go outside and tan both of them for even looking at such, but she didn't want to leave the kitchen or her bottle. She wanted to drink deeply and ignore the fact that her fingers were growing numb with the ice chill of an approaching storm.

She could feel Clara's eyes on her, and Ruthie didn't want that sour mouthed old bitch to even get a glimpse of Oliver. She had felt Clara's eyes last night too. When Naomi had been laid out on the couch, Ruthie could have sworn that she heard her cousin's triumphant chuckle coming from right next to her ear. That was why she had plastered the false smile on her face and ran from the room. Clara didn't need to see Naomi suffer. When Naomi suffered, then the demon who once owned the child got a thrill. Ruthie was having none of that. It was a shame, a damn shame that Clara had gotten involved with that demon. It was a shame that Ruthie was now on opposite sides of the fence from a cousin that had once been closer to her than any sister. But that was how it was. They had both chosen their sides years ago.

After taking another long swig, Ruthie spoke aloud into the empty kitchen. She knew Clara could hear her. Hell, her damn hands were shaking with cold; "I'm not going to let you hurt them. You'll have to go through me first."

The bottle fell to the floor, not breaking, but pouring moonshine all over Ruthie's good stockings when she heard her cousin's voice answer with; _That can be arranged._

Kansas blared through the radio. _Carry on My Wayward Son_ drifted through the car unhindered. Dean smiled and gently pounded out the emphasized notes against the steering wheel. He loved this song. Secretly, he had always thought of it as his theme song. Especially when he had been traveling alone. He would put the radio on full blast and drive down the road pelting out the verses with barely restrained emotion. He was carrying on. He only hoped that when the hunts were over and he was an old man sitting on his front porch cleaning his rifles, back talking his live in nurse (who would be stacked and know how to cook) that he would find the rest that the song promised. He would love to close his eyes and give in to the weary demands of his body, heart, and soul.

But not right now.

Right now, he was in his Impala driving to an unknown destination sitting next to the woman who could provide him with much needed information. Naomi had been quiet since leaving the house. She had simply stared out the window. Occasionally, she had rubbed her hands together as she watched the passing scenery. It was 103 degrees in the shade and she was rubbing her hands together as if it were the middle of winter. He had remained silent not knowing her well enough to make his usual comments…well, no, that really wasn't it. He was tired of her hitting him.

She was a fickle and impulsive woman. That made her dangerous.

The last strains of the song faded into the air, and he turned the radio off. He glanced her way as he put the breaks on in front of a stop light; "Do you want to tell me where we are headed? Or am I supposed to guess?"

She looked up at him in surprise like she had forgotten that he was in the car with her. The sigh she let out was heavy and dripping with her unknown burden; "We are headed toward the Garden District. There are a few things that I need to show you."

"Show me? I don't need a trip through the Antiques Roadshow."

Her lips quirked in answer to his sarcastic reply; "And I don't need you acting like a jackass and making back handed pop culture references at me all day." Her amusement faded quickly and the car was soon permeated with silence again.

Dean had the feeling that she was gathering herself. She looked to be in deep thought and occasionally she rolled her shoulders. Dean did the same thing before he was about to go head to head with a guy a whole hell of a lot bigger than him. "We are going to my ex-husband's house. Did Bobby tell you anything about what happened to me?"

Dean shook his head; "No. He told me to show up and not piss you off."

There was no smile. There was no snappy comeback. Instead, her voice was soft, almost wistful; "The house is at the end of the road. It has honeysuckle yellow siding and white shutters. There is a picket fence in the front yard. It looks like something ripped from the pages of _Better Homes and Gardens._ A place where a family should live. A family with a loving husband, a happy wife, and children."

There was something in the cadence of her words, the way she was looking down at her hands that stayed Dean's need to push the story along.

"I was fifteen when I married Stephen." A humorless chuckle burst from her lips before she continued; "My father met him at church of all places. He was rich, handsome, and told my father that he thought he could help me meet my full potential."

Dean raised an eyebrow and turned his left blinker on when Naomi motioned her hand in that direction. His stomach pitched in disgust as he thought of Naomi trudging down the aisle like some child bride marching toward her perverted suitor. He found the beginning of her story deranged and nasty as hell; "Your potential?"

A sad smile appeared; "I suppose I jumped the shark a bit. My father was a store clerk and my mother worked part time at a diner a few blocks from our house. They did what they could to make ends meet. They had three mouths to feed. Three children to put through school. I was a burden to them emotionally and financially. When I was seven, I sat down at a piano and just began to play. The moment my hands touched the white ivory I knew I belonged sitting in front of one for the rest of my life. It was feral, profound, natural. It was that way with every instrument I touched. When I put them in my hand, I would close my eyes and the notes would come to me like a painting. In vivid blues, greens, purples. I would see the colors and move my hands on the instrument I was playing. I would paint the picture I saw in my head as music just poured out. Because of my talent, my mother begged my father to enroll me in a special school for the arts. Even with three scholarship offers and Ms. Ruthie footing the bill for books, I drained my family dry. My father saw Stephen as a way out. Someone who could remove me from the home and provide me with the education that was putting them in the poor house."

Again, Dean turned left. He wanted to tell her that he thought her father's decision was pretty damn shitty. He wanted to tell her that family needed to stick together, but wouldn't he be the world's biggest hypocrite if those words left his mouth. His brother wouldn't talk to him and his father ran off without a word.

Naomi must have taken his silence for his approval to continue talking; "My father wasn't a bad man. He was just a simple man who wanted his children to have the best. I married Stephen because my father asked me to and I thought I was in love. He was handsome, worldly, and didn't treat me like a child. I thought I was living in a romance novel."

She motioned for Dean to turn one last time and they ended up in front of a house that was as big as a dream. It was just as she had described it. It was large and painted a welcoming shade of yellow with creamy white shutters and lattice work. The yard was well maintained and a grinning garden gnome peaked at visitors from beneath the towering shade of a willow tree. Dean could see the same things as Naomi. He could see children playing, laughter, and family growing and changing in a house like this.

"Stephen lived in this house when we first met." Naomi's voice was matter of fact.

Dean parked the car close to the curb and followed suit when Naomi unbuckled and stepped out into the thick air. He wanted to clear his throat. Every time he took a deep breath in his damn city he felt like his throat was being coated in a thick slime and no matter how many times he tried to shake the shackles of the heat, he was still left with a glob of the South in the back of his throat. He took one step toward the house but stopped abruptly when Naomi reached out to grab his arm.

"I haven't been back here since I left Stephen in Paris." She removed her hand and gave him an apologetic smile for having touched him (again) without his express permission. "This is still his house. I can still smell him. Hear him." Naomi closed her eyes.

Dean readied himself. She looked wild. The breeze picked up her hair and sent it tumbling forward. When she opened her eyes, he fell into them. They were bright and saturated with memories that only she could see. He wanted her to tell him everything, but knew that their acquaintance was too new and too fragile for him to demand. So he watched, as tears began to shine and fall down her cheeks in a gentle water fall. The sun reflecting off of each tiny wet drop.

"Shit. Damn. Hell." Naomi reached up to quickly wipe away the evidence of her emotion. "I will not let that bastard bother me…"

She was talking to herself. Dean let her have a moment. He looked around the yard. His surroundings had not changed and it was broad day light, but he felt something sinister creep in and block out some of the beauty of the day. In his eyes, the grass began to look a bit brown, the flowers didn't look so fresh, and the gnome began to look like a sinister leprechaun beckoning them into unknown terrors.

"This was his home."

He brought his gaze back to hers when he heard her voice. Her eyes were still shining bright with emotion. Her cheeks were stained with wetness and again, he could see that her shoulders were shaking. If she had been sobbing, acting hysterically, or stomping around the yard in some theatrical and histrionic way, Dean would have ignored her. He would have walked toward the house and waited for her to pull herself together before he even acknowledged her presence.

But she wasn't doing any of that.

She was standing stark and alone in a yard full of sunshine reliving things that he could only imagine.

"Hell." He breathed the word and pulled her roughly into his arms. He ignored the click of connection and fought the urge to close his eyes and enjoy the human contact.

She didn't fight him. Thank God. She just stood there breathing heavily against his chest. Her arms remaining at her side. Her resistance to comfort only made him want to hold her longer.

Steel wrapped in silk.

"This was his home." Naomi repeated her earlier statement before bring her hands up to his chest and pushing back just a little. She didn't try to remove herself from his embrace. She just stared into his eyes. "He lived here. He was the man I loved here. We laughed. I played music. This is where he lived Dean, but this house, those walls; it was where I began to die."

To be continued in Shackles Part III


End file.
